


feeling life slip through my fingers (like water in my hands)

by technicolouredmonochrome



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, F/M, M/M, mentions of other couples but it's nothing majorly elaborated on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 09:30:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 25,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1774243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/technicolouredmonochrome/pseuds/technicolouredmonochrome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They call him the boy on fire, drape him in robes of black and grey –the colour of coal and ash– and spin everything into <i>red orange yellow white hot</i> flames that lick at the skin on the back of his neck and his ankles. They ask him to smile (and he grimaces at the blood drying and splattered across his cheek, the dirt and rocks digging into the skin of his knees) and wave (his hands shake as he lays the kid from 11 to rest, her expression blank, eyes clouded over and he has to fight the wave of nausea that rises up and threatens to spill from his lips as he sobs and sobs and sobs–)
</p>
<p>so he does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	feeling life slip through my fingers (like water in my hands)

**Author's Note:**

> So I'm reposting this because of some errors in the fic initially. Warnings for major character deaths, as well as some minor dub-con that isn't really dub-con after all. Other things that you may want to be careful of are rather graphic depictions of murder of young teens.

They call him the boy on fire, drape him in robes of black and grey –the colour of coal and ash– and spin everything into _red orange yellow white hot_ flames that lick at the skin on the back of his neck and his ankles. They ask him to smile (and he grimaces at the blood drying and splattered across his cheek, the dirt and rocks digging into the skin of his knees) and wave (his hands shake as he lays the kid from 11 to rest, her expression blank, eyes clouded over and he has to fight the wave of nausea that rises up and threatens to spill from his lips as he sobs and sobs and sobs–)

so he does.

Meg holds his hand through it, through the speeches and the riots, the yells of “Tell us what you really think!” and the brains of the old man from District 11 staining the blue-grey steps of the podium. He, in turn, holds her through the nightmares and her half-formed screams, the shaking and the tears and the scars that run too long, too deep. He smooths back her bangs and combs his fingers through her hair, the red of it shining even in the dim of the night.

Sometimes, Gavin thinks that _she_ is the one who deserves the honorary _on fire_ to her name.

Meg Turney, the girl on fire.

(One night, he dreams that she is in front of him, poised, coiled, ready to spring. She crouches beneath the shade of the foliage, one hand on the parrying dagger at her hip, the other clutching a branch on a nearby tree. The forest is thrumming with life but they remain silent, the buzzing of flies and the rustling of leaves overhead the only sounds between them, and the whole arena, artificial or no, feels so much like an actual forest that Gavin almost feels at home again. Almost. She pauses suddenly, and he catches her profile against what little sunlight filters through the leaves, and it catches his breath short because her hair is billowing behind her and the rays of light hang onto the ends of each strand of hair; he watches her burn in the midday sunlight. The moment is soon lost when she turns back and starts moving ahead, steps soft and light, making Gavin feel like an elephant in comparison as he stumbles and trips over roots and fallen branches, and he’s _never_ this clumsy, never this slow, he practically _lives_ in a forest but she’s surging ahead and he cannot keep up.

She stiffens, muscles tensing, figure going still. His heart stops, breath caught in his throat, and all he can think of is no, no, no, no, _nononononono_.

There is a pause, a moment of stillness–

–and this is the part where he reaches out, because he’s too far, too late, and his hands catch on thin air and the light shatters from where he’s standing and his mouth falls open, breath catching in his throat–

–she falls.

The blade is wedged between her eyebrows, a thin stream of blood trickling down the ridge of her nose. Her eyes light up momentarily, burning, anger and hatred and fury glowing like embers in a fireplace, and then it snuffs out with little more than a whisper, and her eyes go dull and dead.

Gavin screams.)

He kisses her for the camera, winds her hair around his finger when the Capitol people ask them questions, wraps his arms around her and breathes her in when someone says “When’s the wedding?” It’s all too much, it’s just a distraction, their love story and the affection that is marred by charred flesh and broken bodies, the sound of a trumpet blaring and the echo of a cannon in the distance. It’s all a ruse as Peacekeepers (“Oh the irony,” Meg scoffs one afternoon) flog old men and young women in district squares, burn down houses and shoot children along the streets.

(They return home to find Dan bloody, broken and bruised, back torn open in long, winding gashes from the Head Peacekeeper’s whip, and Gavin’s hands shake as he tries to stop the bleeding, furiously pressing on the cloths covering his back, waiting for the red to stop spreading and staining the white like an infection, like a disease.)

Sometimes, Gavin thinks he should’ve just killed himself in the arena.

Never more so than when they announce the Third Quarter Quell (he’s at home – as _at home_ as the house they built for him in the Victor’s village can ever feel like, too big and too new and too empty – and he suddenly feels like he’s back in the arena all over again, dirt beneath his hands and blood smeared on his cheek). The announcement comes in that the Tributes for this year are to be reaped from the pool of existing victors, and he hurls the cup in his hands at the screen, watching the unsmiling face of their President remain unfazed by his anger, the cup sailing through the holographic screen and finally smashing against the wall behind. He wonders what the Victors from other Districts must be feeling. He thinks especially of District 11, and the way Sam’s (yes, that was the kid’s name, _Samantha_ ) father’s face had crumbled when he’d gone to give him her necklace (her mother wasn’t anywhere he could see, but some nights he thinks he hears her wails of despair, heart-wrenching and piercing, cutting through the air and lodging firmly in his chest, found its mark as surely as the spear that had pierced her daughter). Between him and Burnie, he’s not sure who’d stand a better chance. But he wants, no, _needs_ to be there. _For Meg_ , he tells himself. _I need to be there for Meg. If anyone deserves to survive, it’s her._

They are reaped too fast and too soon (Gavin notices the tremble in Ashley’s hand as she picks up the lone slip of paper from the Girls’ bowl, hears the quiet gasp of breath that escapes Meg’s mouth anyway because it’s _too soon_ , and holds his breath as she dips her hand into the Boys’ bowl, fingers listing uncertainly over the two slips of paper in there). There’s no fanfare, no noise, no cheering (like in District 1) or crying (like in District 11), just quiet acceptance as Meg is reaped and Gavin volunteers. He holds her hand and tries to soothe the tremors on her skin, although he’s pretty sure he’s in no better shape. Burnie looks devastated, and Ashley looks torn between expressing relief (that Burnie hadn’t been picked) and heartbroken (that Gavin and Meg had _just_ survived this shit, and look where they are now, back at square one); Gavin knows that she’s always considered them to be the children she’d never dared to have.

The trip to the Capitol is quiet and full of unspoken terrors. He holds Meg as often as he can, and watches as she slowly breaks apart in his arms. It kills him inside, to think about what she really deserves (a man who would love her forever, children that would have her eyes and her smile) and his throat burns with bitterness at the thought of what she’s getting instead. Burnie drinks and drinks and drinks and drinks, and Gavin can’t help the resentment and anger he feels, because they’ve _been through this before_ and he doesn’t think he’s up for another round with the asshole.

(“Have you forgotten what our agreement was,” he hisses, soft enough to not wake the ladies sleeping in the rooms near the dining table. “Or do I have to remind you again?” Burnie doesn’t look up, doesn’t respond, keeps sipping and sipping and sipping as the glass drains further and further and further down. When he finishes, he sets it on the table and pours some more for himself. Gavin wants to snap the hand that’s holding the glass bottle in half. “We keep her alive goddammit, I volunteered for you so that I can keep her alive. You promised you’d help, you promised you’d tell us what to do–”

“I didn’t promise you anything,” he snaps back, finally, _finally_ looking up and meeting his eyes, expression furious and threatening. “I’ve got my hands tied here. You think I don’t want you kids to survive?”

Meg had stumbled out then, eyes wide and terrified, breath coming out in short little gasps. Gavin spares one more glare at Burnie before walking over, quietly shushing her and taking her by the hand, leading her back to bed.

“It’s alright,” he whispers into her hair that night, “Everything’s going to be alright,” and he tries to make it sound like a promise.)

So he does nothing except glare daggers across the table as Burnie mashes his face into the leftover drink and Ashley is left briefing them about procedures that she’ll have to talk them through again later, because her sentences aren’t complete and she keeps trailing off as she lifts Burnie’s head to keep him from drowning in the puddle of alcohol steadily growing on the table. It makes his gut clench unhappily, because god even _Ashley_ deserves better, and what’s it with Burnie being such a _prick_ , so he picks up his glass of orange juice and dumps it on Burnie’s head, listens to him roar to life, arms flailing wildly and nearly catching his cheek in a mean right hook.

“Fuck you,” Gavin growls, ignoring Ashley’s shocked gasp and Meg’s unimpressed _harrumph_ on his left. “Can’t even get your head out of your goddammed ass.”

And he’s never so mean, never so hurtful, but as he storms out of the room and as he watches the fire ignite in Burnie’s eyes he thinks it’s worth it, recognises some of the old mentor that’d helped get both him and Meg out of the Arena suddenly awaken somewhere in that shell of a man. The end of the train is surprisingly (and thankfully) empty, and he sits down heavily on the cushioned seats, folding in on himself, rests his head on his folded arms and stares out at the scenery whizzing by. It’s their death march, and he must say, that even for a death march the view is pretty damn good.

There is a swish of the door, and soft footsteps padding into the cabin, and quiet ruffling as cushions are being arranged, before a slim hand wraps around his arm. “Gavin?” her voice is soft, unsure, tentative, hesitant and waiting for some kind of backlash. Gavin will never _ever_ raise his voice at her. She _must_ know that, so he gently squeezes her hand in reply.

“Meg,” he says, trying to sound warm and comforting. It falls flat and comes out hoarse and disused. “Meg,” he tries again, and makes to pull her in, tucks her head beneath his chin and breathes breathes _breathes_.

She’s the only scent that keeps his mind clear these days.

They stay like that the rest of the evening, Gavin finally pulling her up so that they can go to a proper bed, cause god knows how much longer they’ll both get a goodnight’s rest with all the shit that’s about to happen.

 

 

In the days leading up to the parade, Gavin feels his mood become worse and worse. He tries not to talk to Meg outside of the their shared encounters in the dead of night, as he whispers meaningless words into her hair and presses his palm wide and warm against the small of her back, trying his best to be an anchor for her. He snaps at everyone else, shoots anyone that so much as walks past him distrustful looks, and on the day of the parade, when the female Tribute from District 7 (Kara, and _what kind of name is that?_ ) strips down to nothing in the elevator (“Aren’t you in high demand boy on fire; half the Capitol is talking about sleeping with you”) , he scowls and presses the “Close” button a little harder than necessary once she steps out. Meg and Ashley look appalled, Burnie is openly leering (but there’s no surprise there).

The thing is, all Gavin can think about as the lift ascends is the red-hair, dark-eyed, dimpled-smirk of the boy from District 4, freckles dotting his face where sun has touched skin, so confident and cocksure and larger-than-life that it makes Gavin grind his teeth in frustration and want to grip him so hard he’d leave bruises on his arms. _Michael Jones_ , Burnie had told them. “Powerful swimmer, even better with a trident. The Capitol’s golden boy. If there’s anyone who’s getting all the sponsors, it’s this guy right here.”

“What’s his weakness?” Gavin had asked instead, ignored the insistent eyes boring into him through the holographic screen of the television.

Burnie had huffed out a laugh then, low and humourless. “Got quite an instinct on you eh?” and the implications make Gavin’s stomach twist in knots. But Meg is sitting curled up against him and he realises that he _really doesn’t care_. As long as it keeps Meg safe and happy, he’d commit any kind of sin for her.

“He looks fond of the lady that volunteered,” Gavin notes, running battle plans in his head. It shouldn’t be too hard to take her out, just get Michael and blondie over there separated, and it should be easy to–

Burnie bares his teeth in what is supposed to be smirk, finally responding after a breath, “That’s Barbara. She volunteered for that girl, Lindsay, who was the Victor that was originally Reaped.”

“Is she okay?” and of course, sweet sweet Meg would be worried about the people who had the potential to kill them in the arena.

“Lindsay? No, she isn’t,” and Burnie looks conflicted for a minute before he lets out a sigh. “Something in her snapped after she won her Games, her head’s never been quite right since then. Barbara is like a sister to her, was her mentor when she was first Reaped at the age of 14.” He turns to face them, and Gavin’s never felt so _guilty_ for asking about something before, staring straight ahead as Michael pulls Barbara in and presses a kiss to her temple, sees the look of _We’ve got to keep her safe_ that they share between them, making Gavin ache with empathy so strong, he finds himself absently rubbing his chest to dispel the insistent throb. “If you’re going to take Barbara out, I only ask for one thing,” and his voice has gone quiet, soft, a little unsure around the edges. “Make it quick and painless. God knows we all love Barb.”

Gavin’s never felt so guilty in all his life, but plays it down by asking about the Tributes from District 3 (Ray Narvaez Jr. and Ali Baker, both young and determined, offering each other small encouraging smiles before stepping out and taking a bow to the uproarious cheers of the people), mind working and whirling and calculating their best course of action, the one that’d lead to the biggest chance of Meg getting out alive.

In the days leading up to the parade, Gavin dreams of fire and ice, ocean and desert, the unsmiling face of their President, the dimming of Meg’s eyes. Each night it’s him who wakes up screaming as nightmare after nightmare plagues his unconscious, and he feels bad because Meg is the one that has to be strong for him nowadays, hand combing through his hair as she hums quietly under her breath.

And as they’d suited up for the parade, Gavin stroking their horse’s mane quietly, Michael (beautiful, arrogant, brash, _dangerous_ ) had swaggered up to him and offered him a smirk.

“The boy on fire,” and his tone set Gavin on edge. This man was _dangerous_ , his entire body screamed predator, and as he offers Gavin an open-mouthed smirk he feels his guard go up up up. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“The pleasure’s all mine Michael,” he grits out. At least some of Ashley’s lessons had stuck.

He lets out a laugh, not loud enough to draw attention, but not soft enough to feel genuine. “Well, aren’t you an interesting one.”

“Am I? Really?” and it’s almost a dare, the way Gavin says it, realises the bait he’d unintentionally dropped when Michael leans in.

“You know,” he starts, lounging and looking all too comfortable against the side of his chariot. “I have a lot of secrets, we’d make a good team.” He steals a sugar cube from Gavin and pops it into his mouth, sucking on it obscenely. “I _live_ for secrets, have my ass stuffed full of ‘em. You team up with me in the Arena, and we’d never grow hungry, never go thirsty. I have so many sponsors wrapped around my finger they’d be paying through their _teeth_ to get us out alive.”

“Thought there’d only be one Victor,” Gavin manages, holding the bowl out of reach when Michael makes to grab for another one.

“Give them a good show,” he says and shrugs as he waves absently at the bowl of sugar cubes, “And there won’t be just one of us.” Gavin stares him down, tries to get the upper hand on the conversation, but his brain shuts down at the small smirk that Michael gives him when he leans in, too close, too personal, and whispers in his ear, “Got any secrets worth my time boy on fire?”

He can’t help but notice that Michael smells of salt and sea, the ocean in its endless expanse, stretching miles into the horizon, and catches a whiff of _something_ emanating from his skin. “Maybe I do,” he whispers back, breathing it in and feeling something sink into him. Forcibly, he pulls himself away and offers as good a smirk as he’d gotten. “Not that I’d trust you with them.”

Michael’s eyes light up with surprise, and then curiosity, before it’s all washed away by that weird imitation of a laugh that makes Gavin wince. “Well played,” he replies, voice cold and sharp, and Gavin fights to keep the grin on his face because that was _terrifying_ , but Meg appears and he notices the way Michael softens as she approaches, offers her a small tilt of his head in acknowledgement. “Meg Turney.”

“Michael Jones,” she replies curtly, and Gavin can see the distrust written all over her expression, eyes rapt with attention, looking out for any hints of foul play or weapons that might be hiding beneath his thin excuse for a tunic. There is a swell of pride at that, his girl scoping out the competition with a careful sweep of her gaze.

Michael doesn’t even crack under the scrutiny, just offers them a mock bow and winks at Gavin. “The offer still holds if you have some secrets to spare, it was nice talking to you, boy on fire.”

He doesn’t miss the soft little scoff that leaves Meg’s mouth as Michael saunters off, and Gavin gives her a lopsided smile. “Thanks for saving me.”

“God knows you needed it,” she teases right back, and Gavin loves how confident and brilliant and strong she becomes when she’s under public scrutiny, like she’d miraculously picked up all the pieces of herself she left scattered around their shared room and glued them together before stepping out into the watchful eye of the public.

That’s just the thing about Meg. In front of the cameras, on stage, at public events, in front of sponsors, she was _Meg Turney_ , beautiful, smart, cunning, all bold lines and large gestures, so sure of her every move, never second guessing herself. She’d walked into that training room in the Capitol and taken down every single hologram enemy with her parrying daggers, all graceful movements and no hesitation as she cut down enemy after enemy after enemy. The entire room of Tributes had stood by the window, fascinated, mouth agape and in awe of her. When she’d walked out afterward, only slightly winded, she’d ignored their looks of envy and interest, eyes staring up ahead, expression cold, touching Gavin’s wrist briefly before walking off towards the knot station. His heart had swelled with pride, because that is the Meg Turney he knows, he remembers, from the early days of the games, when she was all _her_ and nothing in the world could bring her down, not the Games, not the Capitol, not her lot in life.

But she had been there when Samantha was killed, her eyes turning cold and distant and vicious when the boy from District 3 speared her down. He knows it wasn’t _Meg_ that did it, but he’d never forget the way she’d spun on her heel, deadly quick, daggers poised and ready and deadly as she darted through the undergrowth, after the boy who was trying to escape. But he was clumsy and stumbling over the roots and branches littering the floor, and he didn’t go far before Meg caught up with practiced ease. They’d crashed together in a tussle of limbs and teeth somewhere out of sight from where he was crouched over Sam, whose breathing was ragged and eyes quickly losing their light (“Say– say sorry to mum and dad for me okay?” and Gavin just held her and begged her not to go, as she kept humming some broken lullaby under her breath). There were two screams of agony, one from a physical wound and another from a broken heart, and Gavin had squeezed Sam tighter against his chest, trying desperately to keep her alive. Meg collapses next to him much much later, blood splattered on her cheek and staining every single one of her fingers, her hands shaking shaking shaking as she tries to push the hair out of Samantha’s eyes.

“She’s so cold,” she’d finally whispered, hands still wrecked with tremors. “Make her wake up Gavin, please?”

And she’d kept whispering it, even as the jet came to collect the body and two cannon shots sounded in the distance, hands clutching Gavin’s arm and begging him to make things right. If he could he would’ve, but as it is he just collects her hands in his and keeps telling her that they’ve got to go, the Career pack will be coming for them soon.

God knows her hands haven’t stopped trembling since.

It doesn’t stop trembling now, as she deftly works her way around the knots, or later, when she’s spinning in her beautiful, beautiful white dress (the white dress that she was supposed to wear on her wedding day, and she’d have been the most beautiful bride on earth). Her stylist outdoes himself this year, and Gavin watches the flames ignite and start to eat its way up her dress. The white is burnt away and transforms into a simple black dress, and Gavin sees the exact moment when her eyes turn firm, mouth set in a confident, straight line as she lifts her hands to reveal the white tipped wings attached to her back.

She’s been turned into a Mockingbird, a symbol of the rebellion, and Gavin hates it because now she’s a _target_ , and wants to punch the living daylights out of her stylist himself.

He watches the eyes of their President turn cold and calculating, and he wants to go up there and stop everything, ask Meg to stop smiling so wide and beautiful and _proud_ , but he knows she’d rather die than put down her wings, than let the people lose hope. When they thank her for “the stunning display”, he makes his way on stage and presses a kiss to her cheek.

“Be careful,” he warns, words no more than a breath against her ear, but when he pulls away he smiles wide and warm, and watches her return the grin.

“Always,” she whispers back when they embrace, and then it’s her turn to pull away as she makes her way onto the steps.

Gavin’s interview goes without much of a hitch, and he plays up the charming disposition of a star-crossed lover, sighing deeply when he’s asked if there’s anything he regrets. “It’s just–” and he has to swallow against the tightness in his throat, and he thinks of Ray and Ali (so, so young, so terrified of the lights and noise and deafening laughter, “People don’t get to determine other’s lives, the world doesn’t work that way”) and Michael and Barbara (“To someone I love back home: if I don’t return, just know that the last thing I’ll remember is the feeling of your lips on mine” and the ladies in the crowd swoon, only for the genuine look in his eyes to be replaced by a flirtatious grin; Barbara stands stock still at his side, lips tight and exhausted lines around her eyes), so he breathes in deep and doesn’t think too much about his next words: “I’d have no regrets, if not for the baby.”

There is an uproar in the crowd, disbelief, anger, pity, cries of injustice, and he fights to keep his expression neutral as he makes his way to Meg’s side and she hugs him tight, whispers “Thank you” as he grips her hand. All the Victors raise their joined hands and take a bow together, and Gavin prays prays prays that this will be enough to get them all out of this mess of a Games.

It isn’t enough, but no one is really surprised.

 

 

The flight with Burnie to the Arena is not any easier the second time round, and there is a stoic, resigned _something_ between them that makes it hard to breathe.

“If anything happens to me, you’d do everything to keep her alive right?”

“Yes,” Burnie intones, and Gavin glances at him but can’t tell if he’s lying.

“Promise me.”

It’s only then that Burnie turns to look him straight in the eyes. “I can’t promise you anything.”

The rest of the trip is left to silence, even as Burnie pins his momento against his shirt.

“May the odds ever be in your favour,” he whispers, and Gavin nods sharply, stepping into the glass pod, feeling more than hearing the swish of being transported into the arena, the doors opening and revealing the surroundings to him little by little. He closes his eyes. Breathes. Breathes. Breathes.

The first thing he notices is _water_.

And then he’s turning, looking, _searching_ for red hair, but he doesn’t, _can’t_ find Meg anywhere.

The countdown sounds in the background, a loud booming noise that sets Gavin on edge, and he glances to his left and right warily; hopefully none of them are any good in water either.

 _Three_ , and Gavin feels the muscles in his legs coil, ready to spring.

 _Two_ , and there’s a snarl on his right, the Tribute from 2 growling out a warning.

 _One_ , and suddenly he becomes deaf to everything else, the adrenaline and the starting buzz tunnelling his vision, until all he can see is the Cornucopia and the straight path of soil leading from his starting block to it.

He starts running before his brain even registers his legs moving.

Somewhere behind him, he hears another snarl and a cry of pain, and he hopes the Tribute from 2 has tripped and fallen into the waters, and he wills himself to run faster faster faster; he needs his bow and arrows, and he needs to get the parrying daggers for Meg–

The Cornucopia is thankfully empty when he reaches it and he finds the weapons easily enough. The half a minute head-start is all he needs before someone is hurling a throwing knife at his head that he ducks (barely in time). The bow is familiar in his hand, strong and well built, and he loads it up in one swift movement, ducking beneath another knife and letting the arrow fly without a moment’s hesitation. It pierces through the suit and embeds itself in the Tribute’s chest, the force sending him falling backwards and into the water with a splash.

Suddenly, he feels a cold blade pressed against his neck and he stops moving immediately.

“The boy on fire huh,” the voice says, low and mocking. “Thought you’d be much harder to kill.”

Gavin almost gives in then, the feeling of ice cold metal flush against his jugular too much to handle, but he hears a cry of defiance somewhere behind that sounds so much like Meg that he can’t bring himself to give in just yet.

“Fuck you,” he growls out and flips the both of them into the water below.

The terrifying thing about the water is that it is deep, so deep that Gavin can’t see the bottom, and if it isn’t for the bright lights in the arena, he wouldn’t be able to tell which direction is up towards the surface. He fights to not lose the weapons slung loosely over his shoulder to the pull of the undercurrents. Thankfully, their sudden descent into the water blinds his attacker, allowing him to pull away from his grip fairly easily, aiming a kick at his head, using it to propel himself to the surface. A hand grabs his shin and yanks him downwards with force.

His lungs are burning from the lack of oxygen, making him kick harder at the hand around his foot, but the grip doesn’t loosen and he just ends up losing even more air. His vision starts going dark around the edges, but he can’t give up, not yet, not when he has something worth fighting for (Meg).

The hilt of one of Meg’s parrying daggers is beneath his palm, and he unsheathes it without much difficulty, bringing it down and stabbing at the hand still around his ankle. He feels the grip vanish almost immediately, and wastes no time kicking, using his arms to propel himself up and out of the water, breaking the surface with a gasp. Arms encircle his waist, and he really doesn’t think he’s up for another fight _goddammit_ but he isn’t going down so easily either, if he could take out one more competitor with his dying breath, then maybe Meg would be able to survive the Games after all–

He feels himself being pulled towards the shore, and he turns his head enough to catch a glimpse of freckles on pale cheeks and his heart does a a strange swooping thing in his chest because this is _Michael Jones_ , and he feels the power in his limbs as they reach the shore with such ease that Michael isn’t even winded from saving him at all. Gavin feels strangely affronted as he heaves up mouthful after mouthful of water, that he should be so breathless and on the verge of choking when Michael barely has a a strand of hair out of place.

Meg is by his side in a second, rubbing his back and glaring at Michael from the corner of her eye. “You okay?” she whispers, and Gavin barely manages a nod.

“If I wanted to kill him,” Michael scoffs, “I would’ve killed him before he brought you your weapons.”

She gently pries his fingers from its death grip on her parrying daggers, still shooting Michael mistrustful looks, and Gavin wants to tell her that she (her daggers really, but Meg by extension) saved him again, and he really does owe her now. All that comes out is a choked cough as more water leaves his mouth, and he glares at Barbara’s amused look from where she’s standing behind Michael.

“He claims Burnie sent him and Barbara to team up with us,” Meg continues, ignoring Michael in favour of pulling Gavin to his feet. “I wouldn’t trust him, but I don’t think we stand much of a chance out here on our own.”

Gavin feels a little unsteady on his feet, but manages to stop swaying after a few dizzying breaths. “No harm in calling a temporary truce first,” he reasons, still glaring at Michael’s ridiculously self-satisfied smirk and Barbara’s gentler, more amused one.

“I knew why I liked you best lover boy,” Michael replies with a wink, gesturing to Barbara to pass him the trident in her hand.

It’s silly, and Gavin shouldn’t be wasting brain power thinking up images like these, but he can picture Michael standing atop waves like a king of the ocean. Like Poseidon.

Barbara starts rattling off observations as she sheathes her long sword that’s dripping with blood (and Gavin doesn’t want to ask whose) when the cannon fires in the distance and the huge jets (“–of death,” Michael mutters) swoop in to retrieve the bodies. “There’s no way we can count how many others we’re still up against right now,” Barbara grimaces. “It’s safest to just head into the woods and wait for night time. When we’ve got a good gauge on how many are left, we’ll come up with a better plan of action.”

The trek through the forest is quiet, with Barbara up front hacking away at the foliage blocking their path. Gavin takes the time to size up both Michael and Barbara: they’re both better at shorter distance combat, but Meg could probably take Barbara on and win. He would have to get a bit further if his arrows were to be of any use, but if they are trapped in a flat area with no vantage point that he can get to, he’s afraid they might not stand a chance.

Behind him, something snaps, and he turns around quickly, trying to pinpoint the direction the noise came from. “Wait,” he whispers into the silence of the forest, and behind him their footsteps still. There’s a minute or two of waiting, everyone on edge, Gavin’s eyes darting wildly and trying to spot any stray movements, when there’s a rustle from behind one of the bushes and a huge man appears. He recognises him as the Tribute from 9.

“Jack Patillo,” Michael says then, and Gavin notices how he relaxes and steps forward to grip the man’s outstretched arm. “Caiti with you?”

A smaller woman appears behind him, expression wide and innocent, and Gavin belatedly thinks _she shouldn’t be here_. “Hey Michael,” she chirps quietly, too bright and happy to be a Victor. “Hey Barb.”

Meg is at his side in an instant, but Gavin doesn’t miss the way her hands hover just above the hilt of her daggers. “District 9?”

“Burnie told us to meet up with you at the first chance we get,” the man named Jack says, and Gavin can’t help but notice how _kind_ his voice sounds. Meg notices it too, and her eyes narrow at his words.

“Burnie?”

“Well he sure did a lot of things without telling us,” Gavin grits out, fingers tightening around his bow. Even if Michael and Barbara were all ready to trust them and welcome them into their small group he and Meg sure aren’t happy about it; given their easy camaraderie the four of them could (would, probably will) team up to take them out later on. The possibility of this _situation_ does not go unconsidered by Meg, because she shoots him a look and then says:

“You’re not joining our group.”

Michael narrows his eyes at her. “Are you insane? Didn’t you hear that Burnie asked them to help us out?”

She scoffs and mutters darkly, “You throw Burnie’s name around like it means a whole lot to us.”

“Yeah, _help us out_ “ Gavin continues instead, because Meg looks like she’s moments away from taking Michael’s head off. “More like get them to help you and Barbara take me and Meg out, and I’m pretty sure _Burnie_ didn’t mean it that way.”

They all stare at each other in silence at that, nothing but harsh breathing between them, and the sound of birds in the distance. The sound would be soothing if not for the cameras that Gavin can feel aimed at them, watching their every move. “You need us with you,” Jack finally says, quietly but with conviction. “You need us because we know how to end the Games with all of us making it out of here alive.”

Something burns in Gavin at those words, because “It can’t be true!” Meg yells, an echo of his own thoughts, her words blurring into one giant mess in his head, and he sees a bloodbath between the six of them as they hack and chop and fight each other to the death, limbs torn from torsos, bodies dismembered. As he lays a hand on Meg’s forearm he tries to clear his head, he’s a _strategist_ goddammit, and maybe, _maybe_ keeping his enemies close is a good way to go about winning the Games. He clears his throat and feels (more than hears) Meg lapse into silence.

“Alright,” he says, and she looks so surprised and ready to retort that he continues before she can say anything. “But either me or Meg will be present for all of the night shifts. We don’t want any of you jumping us when we’re asleep.” She doesn’t look happy, but he feels more than sees her agree with his compromise, and he relaxes (she _gets_ him, without him having to say anything, and he’s never been so thankful that he’s so transparent to her than he is now).

Jack nods. “Fair enough.”

That puts a note of finality to the discussion, and Barbara nods towards higher grounds, gesturing to it with a wave of her sword. “Our best bet now is up.”

And so their entourage of six continue their trek uphill, when loud music blares across the surroundings, startling them out of their stupor (and Gavin had been calculating and planning and putting sub-plans into each of his plans – he’s never really been one for planning before the games, but then he was thrown into the Games and everyone seemed to know what to do, so in the silence of the night he ends up spending time running through scenario after scenario in his head, considering, calculating, and suddenly _here he is_ ) and the huge faces of the fallen Tributes flash across the sky.

“Six dead,” Barbara mutters when the forest falls into darkness again, the insect noises a lot louder than before. “Twelve more in the arena with us.”

When they finally come to a stop, everyone is thirsty and almost dehydrated. Gavin feels his skin contract and try to swallow him from the inside out, and he tries (albeit unsuccessfully) to wet the roof of his mouth, where his tongue has begun to stick. Meg doesn’t show how uncomfortable she is, how the dryness is eating at her, and that’s just so _Meg_ , all strong and infallible on the outside. She walks over to him and brushes the hair out of his eyes. “You okay?” she whispers, hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

“Yeah,” he croaks back, voice hoarse and throat dry, feeling the scritch-scratch when he says the word. He tries for a smile instead.

She looks at him worriedly (in other words: he definitely sounds worse than he thought) and sighs against his skin as she leans in and presses her face into the juncture between his shoulder and neck and breathes. He brings his hand up and tangles it in the strands of her hair a little gritty and unkempt from walking through the forest all day, but it’s a small comfort they can both afford as the rest of the group sets up camp below. Tomorrow he’ll tell her about his plans, A through Z, and the multiple sub-plans that come with it, and they’ll pick the best one that’ll get her alive. Tomorrow when the sun is up and the sky is clear and they’re done with the mistrustful glances they’ve been shooting all day, they’ll figure something out. Just then, the soft chime of a sponsored gift sounds above them and Gavin reaches out a hand and catches it, hastily opening it up. _Stay hydrated_ the note says, signed with a scrawled _B_ at the bottom that makes Gavin grin despite the circumstances.

“What’s that?” Michael asks from where he’s helping Jack and Caiti build a makeshift shelter for the night.

“A spile,” he replies, still not able to keep the grin off his face, and he moves from his position, pulling Meg with him as he heads for the nearest tree.

The first trickle of water that flows out makes him let out a whoop of joy. Just then, there is a loud cracking sound, like the sky is being split in two, and he looks up in time to see a bright flash of lightning in the distance.

“The fuck was that?” Michael breathes, and Gavin hadn’t realised they’d been so close as Meg is bent under the spile, careful to catch every drop with a huge leaf.

“Beats me,” he replies, and then turns to accept the makeshift cup from Meg. After a few mouthfuls, enough to cure the burning in his throat, he moves aside to let Michael crouch under the spile and lap up the water, calling out to the others. “Get something to drink,” he tells Jack who’s standing guard over their shelter. “I’ll look after it.” Jack gives him a grateful smile and heads up after Caiti, leaving Gavin alone with his thoughts.

Truth is, after trekking through the jungle with these people, he finds that he genuinely likes them (despite the circumstances, and trusting them about as far as he can throw them – which isn’t very far – they are inherently good people) and doesn’t want to have to kill any of them. If he’d thought he was the only one with something to fight for, he’d been so so so wrong. Jack and Caiti clearly meant something to each other, and Michael and Barbara both had Lindsay to go back home to. Meg had her little sister back in 12, and he had Meg and Dan. Under different circumstances, he could see himself being friends with these people, but as it is, he doesn’t know when their hospitality will run out, when they’ll realise that Gavin isn’t going to let them kill him and Meg just because _they_ had something to protect. So against the guilt that’s pounding in his ribs, he runs through his plans in his head again (A to Z, and all the in-betweens), how, when the time comes, he and Meg can take them out.

Michael is the first to return and settles in next to him. “Not going to sleep?”

Gavin startles out of his thoughts, and turns to catch a glimpse of Michael in the darkness of the night. “I’ve got first watch.”

He nods, and Gavin is thankful Michael doesn’t say something like _you can trust us you know_ because those aren’t the words he’d be saying when he has that trident against his throat. Instead, Michael says “Then I’ll get some shut eye first. You and Barb can take first watch.”

The first few hours prove to be uneventful, and he tries his best not to fall asleep to the soft humming of Barbara next to him. They don’t talk, and Gavin is grateful she doesn’t try; he doesn’t think he can take learning more about someone–(–he’s going to have to kill–)–’s family or her dreams and aspirations and other things like that. The less human they are to him, the easier it’ll be in the long run. Something in the air shifts, and Gavin perks up immediately, all exhaustion gone.

“What’s that?” he whispers, and Barbara has gone quiet too, leaning forward and scanning the darkness ahead of them.

There is a low rumble, and something crashes in the distance.

“Wake the others,” Gavin says, jumping to his feet. “I’m going to check it out, and if we need to run, make sure everyone’s ready.”

He doesn’t wait for her nod of acknowledgement before he’s scaled the nearest tree and is peering down at the forest floor beneath them. The air around him is distinctly colder, and he keeps moving through the leaves and branches. Something’s not quite right–

There is a crash behind him, a huge chunk of ice taking out most of the leaves and branches and crushing a few smaller bushes beneath it. Further away, there is another resounding crash.

He rushes back to the camp and sees everyone already awake and alert and he manages a quick “Hailstorm, except not tiny chunks of ice,” before a huge boulder of solid ice crashes down behind him and starts rolling towards them. “Run!”

They sprint through the undergrowth, and once or twice miss the falling blocks of ice by a mere hair’s breadth, before they’re changing course and zig-zagging through the trees. It’s terrifying, they never know where the next block is going to land, and in the huge group they are travelling in, it is a miracle an ice block hasn’t landed amongst them and killed them yet. They end up splitting up, Gavin with Meg, Michael with Barbara, Jack with Caiti, as they hurdle over obstacles and dodge falling ice blocks and try to stay alive.

There is a loud crunch behind him and a cry of pain, and despite every instinct in Gavin screaming at him to _runrunrun_ he stops and turns back to look anyway. A huge boulder of ice rolls over Michael’s foot, and from where Gavin is, he can only guess that all that’s left is a mangled mess of flesh and bone. He hears Barbara’s cries for help, and he turns to look at Meg, seeing her look of recognition and the subsequent pleading in her eyes.

“No Gavin–”

“Run and don’t look back,” he tells her, pulling her in and pressing a kiss to her temple as another crash sounds behind him. “Go!”

She takes off immediately, and Gavin watches her disappear into the darkness of the forest before quickly making his way back up, barely dodging another falling block of ice.

“Get him on my back,” he hisses when Barbara stares at him in surprise. “Hurry!”

She doesn’t need any more prompting, helping to lift Michael onto his back as she hooks an arm around Gavin’s and pulls them towards the shelter of more trees. Behind them, the rumble of the ground indicates a boulder rolling towards them.

“Fuck,” Michael grimaces with each uneven landing Gavin makes, jostling his leg. Gavin doesn’t have to look to know the warm liquid tricking against the back of his calf is the blood from Michael’s mangled foot. The rumbling of the boulder of ice grows louder, but no matter how much they weave and run off course, the ice doesn’t seem to stop following them. “Drop me,” Michael says after another bout of swearing. “I’m slowing you down, drop me–”

“Shut up,” Gavin growls back in between breaths, before he trips over a root, sending both him and Michael sprawling, Barbara landing unceremoniously on top of the both of them. Gavin is _exhausted_ , feels it eating him from the inside out, and when he looks up the boulder is approaching them at a terrifying speed, so he gestures to Barbara to “Go! Run!” and he tries to drag Michael up–

It’s too late.

But before he feels the cold crushing him and the ice engulfing him the boulder recoils, as though it’d been hit by something, and stops its pursuit.

The laugh that escapes his lips sounds more like a cry.

Meg finds him and hugs him, holds him tight, shaking in his arms, while Barbara gently pulls Michael upright and gets to work on his foot. Jack and Caiti find them last. “Look who we found along the way,” Caiti adds, voice bright and unnaturally happy for someone who’d almost just gotten squashed by ice blocks.

Four figures appear behind them, but Gavin draws his bow immediately because they’re all covered in blood. He aims an arrow at the closest figure, who raises his hand in some kind of a peace offering. Like that would make any difference.

“This may look a little messy,” the figure says, “But we’re on your side.”

Gavin doesn’t believe it, and neither does Meg too, from the way she draws her parrying daggers and holds them ready for an attack. Michael and Barbara are too busy to give any input, so Jack continues for them. “They’re from District 3 and District 7.”

“Kara,” Meg says, expression twisting. Clearly the name leaves a sour aftertaste in her mouth.

“Meg,” she says right back, stepping up behind the guy. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna steal lover boy from you, don’t think he’d want me anyway.”

“I’m Joel,” the figure finally says and gestures to the two smaller figures behind them. “Ray and Ali from District 3. You wanted them didn’t you?”

Gavin still doesn’t let his guard down. “What happened?” he asks instead, eyes flickering over to Michael, grimacing as Barbara does her best to wrap his foot up. “Why are all of you–” ( _covered in blood? looking like you murdered an entire army of Careers?_ ) and he ends up gesturing to them for lack of a better word.

Kara let out a humourless laugh. “It rained blood, and we had to keep these two alive for you.”

The one called Ray winces at the tone. Ali remains stoic and calculating beside him. He notices that they’re holding each other’s hands tightly as Kara barrels on with her story.

“Thick, fat, drops of blood, and we were choking and blinded and all we could smell was _blood_ everywhere and we kept running with no destination in mind. Who knew, that when we thought we were going to die from not being able to breathe, the rain stopped and the sun came out, and all was dandy and right again in the world.”

It’s only then that Gavin notices the squish beneath his feet is from the remnants of the blood downpour from earlier and fights the urge to puke. He turns to see Barbara done with Michael’s foot and moves over to help him stand on his good one. “Let’s head to the beach then,” he says and looks to Meg for confirmation, who nods and moves to his side.

“Let’s get you guys cleaned up and plan how to take out the remaining Tributes,” she finishes for him, because Michael is cursing softly next to him and Gavin has to fight the urge to run soothing fingers up and down his back.

The walk to the beach is quiet and uneventful enough, except for the occasional snark remark Kara makes, they travel in relative contentment, happy to just _be alive_ after all the shit that has happened. The beach is empty, and Meg nods to him before following them into the water. Both he and Barbara manage to sit Michael between them, before Barbara pulls the spile from her pocket and nods towards the forest.

“I’m going to get some clean water for Michael’s leg,” she says, and then punches him lightly in the arm when he moves to remove the crude bandage she’d fashioned around his foot (or what remains of it). All the cloth is stained completely red, and Gavin feels another bout of nausea as Michael shifts and wet, red streaks are left in the sand. He’s never been good with blood. “Make sure he doesn’t worsen his injury,” Barbara warns, and Gavin nods, Michael grumbling under his breath.

When she leaves, they sit in silence for awhile, watching Joel and Kara and Ray and Ali get the blood off, staining the surrounding waters crimson, and Gavin feels terror coursing in his veins, because who knows what else the Gamemakers have in mind this year? As though in answer to his question, the far side of the arena shudders, a deep groaning as thick black smoke courses out in waves from the top of the trees. “Fire,” Michael breathes, and Gavin turns in time to see the unadulterated fear in his eyes. It’s understandable, coming from someone who’s lived all his life in a district where everything is surrounded by water, that he should so easily recognise it (and likewise fear it). He knows that feeling, feels it when the chill of winter bites into his skin, thinks of the homeless scattered along the streets, curled up on themselves and trying to keep the warmth in. Most of them stay that way forever, frozen figures that line the pavements and walkways, all that’s left of their cloths and blankets are brittle remains that shatter when touched, and Gavin wonders if that’s what had done them in instead.

A piercing scream pulls him out of his thoughts, and it drags on and on and on, until Gavin finds himself clutching at his thigh and willing it to stop.

“Someone’s burning,” Michael grits out, jittery and on edge. Gavin is careful not to make any sudden movement for fear that Michael would jump him; he’s coiled so tightly that the slightest thing will set him off. “Someone’s burning,” he repeats again, and Gavin holds his breath, waiting waiting waiting.

The smoke vanishes abruptly, the same time the screaming stops. Gavin lets out a shaky breath, sparing Michael no more than a glance, but notices the thin line of his mouth anyway (it looks like it hits a little too close to home for Michael).

“She’s dead.”

Sure enough the jets appear and scoop up a dead body, but all Gavin notices is that it crumbles as it’s lifted, black, charred bits raining down and scattering amongst the treetops, until nothing is left when the giant metal claw is fully retracted into the belly of the jet. Gavin shuts down as the jet lifts and glides away, leaving a low, empty whirring in its wake, hears harsh breathing somewhere behind him and he isn’t sure if it’s from him or if it’s from Michael who is still sitting stock still behind him. Something coils tightly in his gut, and his eyes scan the water for Meg (because god knows she’s the only thing that can keep him grounded in the right here and right now) and spots her still turned towards the vanished jet, eyes bright and mind no doubt whirring. He wants to call her over, open his arms and pull her close, breathe breathe breathe her in and let each inhale-exhale calm the rapid thumpthumpthump of his heart.

As it is, he leaves her where she stands, face tilted upwards as though appraising some unseen god, while he forces himself to relax the way his mum taught him to when he was younger and his temper got the best of him (open your palm, finger by finger, _one two three four five six seven eight nine ten_ , breathe in, and out, _ten nine eight seven six five four three two one_ , breathe in, and out).

He doesn’t hear it the first time, but when he leans back a little further he hears Michael repeat it again. “Holy fucking shit,” and it’s so honest-to-god terrified that he almost reaches out to squeeze his shoulder. Meg saves him from the urge when she appears, kneels in front of him and runs her knuckles over his cheek, drawing his eyes back to her.

“You okay?”

He wants to say yes, he honestly does, but his hands are still clenched in his lap and Michael’s words are echoing in his head and he can’t even bring himself to _pretend_ he isn’t shaken. “I don’t think so.”

Meg nods at that, sharp, curt, but cups his face gently and presses a kiss to his forehead (it’s a little like what his mother used to do, leave kisses in his hair and on his eyebrows – she was always warm and nice and _safe_ – and Gavin would wrap his arms around her middle and listen to her heart thrumming beneath her skin). “We’re gonna be alright,” she says, palm flat against Gavin’s cheek, and he leans into the warmth of it. “Ali and I have something figured out, we just need to get to the Cornucopia to talk things through, but we’re going to be alright.”

Gavin nods, a little uncertain but determined (because she wasn’t supposed to be comforting him, cupping his cheek and soothing the furrow between his eyebrows, _he_ was supposed to be the one holding her hand and getting her out of there alive) and stands when she tugs him up. He turns to find Barbara back and wrapping up Michael’s leg, leaning over to help him stand when she’s done.

“I don’t think I got the chance to say this just now,” Michael whispers when he’s pressed up against him, breath tickling his ear. Gavin’s skin thrums with the mere nearness of Michael, and he suppresses a shudder. “But thanks. I thought you’d leave me behind,” and the honesty of his words makes Gavin start uncomfortably.

“Well, if you’d had wanted to kill us you would’ve done it a long time ago, but you didn’t,” Gavin replies, and finds himself surprised by how much he means it, and tightens his grip on Michael’s waist instead of dwelling on his words. “I hate to say this but I do trust you, and we need to be on the same side in order to kill the remaining Tributes.”

Michael huffs out a small laugh and leans a little heavier on him. “Well boy on fire, never thought you’d want me for my usefulness instead of my dashing good looks.”

Gavin ignores the blush he feels staining his cheeks, and takes the playful jab for what it is: an attempt at friendship. He heaves a short sigh and rolls his eyes, ignoring the leering smile on Michael’s face in favour of focusing on Meg a few steps ahead of him. Barbara is on Michael’s other side in an instant helping him where Gavin’s strength isn’t enough and Gavin is thankful, wouldn’t be good to drop his newfound – teammate? friend? – when they’d just found some common ground.

The walk to the Cornucopia is long and laborious, mostly due to the additional deadweight of Michael’s now useless leg and Ali and Ray who keep stumbling further ahead. They feel painfully exposed, their only defence being Meg and Kara who scale the edges and keep a lookout for any sign that the Career Pack might try to jump them in the middle of the ocean. As difficult as the walk is for Gavin, it’s clearly even worse for Michael who’s started wheezing out harsh breaths from between his teeth. Each _whoosh_ making Gavin squeeze a little on his waist. _We’re almost there,_ his fingers pressing into Michael’s side say. _Almost there._

The shelter of the Cornucopia is even more welcomed than it was before, and Gavin slowly lowers Michael back against the inner wall and leaves Barbara to fix the bandages around his foot. Meg is moving, plotting and planning, sketching out the arena (at least what they’ve seen of it) in the sand at the edges of their tiny island, murmuring fervently with Ali and Ray. He’s at her side as she draws in a huge tree at the edge of the arena.

“The arena works like a giant clock,” she starts, and Gavin looks up to see that almost everyone is gathered around, Michael leaning forward attentively from his position against the wall. “Different events occur at different segments, different segments represent different hours of the day. This giant tree right here,” and she taps the crudely sketched tree at the edge of their makeshift map, “Is struck by lightning at midnight. So here’s our plan: we lure the Careers out onto the beaches.”

“Beforehand, we’d have run this wire,” Ray continues, lifting a huge coil of copper wire from amongst the items left abandoned in the Cornucopia, “Through the wet sand, and attach the end of it to the huge tree that’ll act as a conductor.”

“And then when midnight comes ‘round, “ Michael pipes up, and when Gavin turns to look (really _look_ ) at him, he sees the sparkle in his eyes. “Boom, we’ll have fried Careers lining the beach.”

It sounds gruesome, and painful, but it’s the best shot they’ve got (even though they could probably take them in a fight, that would probably end in someone _dying_ – Gavin’s run the calculations in his head – so any option that doesn’t involve directly engaging the Careers is as good a plan as any).

Joel frowns from where he’s standing. “The lightning tree,” he starts thoughtfully, and Gavin notices the way Ray leans almost instinctively towards him the moment he starts talking. “It’s only happened once, how do we know it’d happen again tonight?”

“We won’t know anything for sure,” Ali replies, voice soft and quiet and thoughtful, “But it’s the best chance we’ve got.”

Gavin grimaces at that; he hates all the ‘ifs’ in this plan. It’ll just make it that much harder to make sure he and Meg aren’t separated in the chaos that’s bound to happen. He tries to catch her eyes but she busy worrying her lower lip and staring intently at the ground, so Gavin starts planning and creating a mental list of ‘what ifs’ instead.

(No lightning, get himself next to Meg, distract and run, take the girls and Michael– take the girls out first.)

“We’ll need a small group of us as bait first, the rest of us will protect Ray and Ali while they work,” Kara says, pulling Gavin out of his thoughts. “Meg and I will run the wire through the sand while Joel, Michael and Caiti stay behind with Ray and Ali at the lightning tree. Barbara, Jack and Gavin will get in position amongst the trees so that when we give the signal, you guys will get on the beach and try to draw the Careers out of hiding. I’ll join you and Meg will return to the tree and help keep guard.”

Gavin tenses up at that, but Meg speaks first, voice a harsh growl, “I’ll join them on the beach.”

“No you won’t,” Barbara retorts, fist clenching. “How do we know and lover boy over there won’t try and take us out?”

Which had been exactly what Gavin had in mind, but hearing it spoken out loud sends waves of defensiveness (and underlying guilt) crashing through him, and he’s quick to retort, “We won’t. We’d just feel safer with each other.”

“ _None_ of us are staying with our partners. We take out the Careers, and then it’s every man for himself,” Kara says, crossing her arms and daring anyone to try and rebuff her. Gavin feels more words on the tip of his tongue back Meg stills him with a hand to his forearm.

 _We’ll talk about this later_ it says, and he bites back his words and nods grudging agreement to Kara’s glare.

(Separated, take out opponents, hide in the trees, find the shortest route back to the meeting point, kill the others, take Meg and run.)

“I think we should get everything we can from here,” Jack starts again, and tosses them each a bottle of water. “Get as much supplies as possible; it’s gonna be a long couple of days.”

The circle slowly breaks off and Gavin finds himself alone at the far end of the Cornucopia, packing in ropes and grappling hooks (never know when they might come in handy) when there’s a small scuffling sound behind him. He looks up immediately, but no one else seems to have noticed it. Doesn’t stop him from cocking his bow and peering cautiously around the pillar he’s behind. Ali, the closest to him, presses herself against the next pillar and watches him with wide eyes. He presses a finger to his lips, and when she nods in understanding, he leans a little further out and watches for any movement. There isn’t anything that catches his eyes, but there _are_ footprints in the sand, and Gavin draws back his arrow and moves back to the safety of his pillar.

There’s a quiet gasp, and when Gavin looks, he sees Ali impaled on the end of a curved scythe, eyes going lifeless and jaw slack before crumbling to the ground.

The arrow flies with a soft ‘twang’ that sounds nothing like the frustration and anger coursing in his blood, and the female Tribute from District 1 falls dead to the floor, his arrow protruding from between her eyes.

Everyone is on guard in a moment, and Gavin tears his eyes away from the sight of Ali’s blood pooling around her, mixing and joining the Tribute’s blood on the floor. The coppery tang is everywhere, and the nausea returns full force, makes Gavin gag as he fights the wave of dizziness that makes his head spin for a moment, just in time for a throwing knife to fly past his head and embed itself in the Tribute with a spear poised behind him.

That snaps him out from the loop of _fuckfuckfuckgodfuckingdammit_ in his head.

He turns and lets another arrow fly, the impact sending the Tribute tumbling back into the water with a splash. There’s a sudden groan beneath his feet and the ground shudders to life. Everyone drops to the floor and grabs ahold of something, waiting for the inevitable shift of the land they’re standing on.

“Brace yourselves,” Caiti cries from where she’s crouched, grabbing ahold of the nearest support, some sort of table leg that’s firmly attached to the ground. Gavin _knows_ that if the Gamemakers wanted to, the entire Cornucopia could go under and they’d all be dead in a minute. But that wouldn’t be much of a show, and he thanks the higher powers for small victories. He barely has time to sling his bow and quiver firmly around his chest before the ground shifts again with a groan–

–and then the spinning starts.

He holds on for dear life as the Cornucopia rotates at inhumane speed, and he doesn’t even recognise the loud yells coming from his own mouth. There are winds whipping at his face, his vision is blurring and he can’t feel his hands or legs. The Arena spins around him, blending into a massive colour of blackwhitegreenblueredredred and the smell of ocean and blood and salt filling his nose and he holds on tighter tighter tighter still, shuts his mouth against the rush of wind and closes his eyes against the sting of tears.

(Meg, who’s still inside, _Meg_ and he hopes she’s okay and everything is one massive blur and MegMegMeg–)

Those few seconds feel like forever, but the world finally stops spinning with another shuddering groan and an almost inaudible _click_ as the Cornucopia resettles back into place, and the first thing Gavin does is pry his fingers carefully from where he’d been clinging on too long, too tight, fingers refusing to budge despite his brain and muscles just _screaming_ at it to move. He heaves a deep breath, and forces his fingers open, hearing them come free with quiet pops of his joints. His legs are shaking too much to stand on, so he half-crawls, half-drags himself into the main Arena looking for Meg.

“Meg?” he calls because his vision is still spinning but there’s nothing but a dry croak from his mouth. He blinks away the stars bursting behind his eyelids and keeps pulling himself forward on unsteady hands, looking for bright red hair and brown brown eyes. “Meg?” he tries again, and notices someone stirring in response, so he presses his eyes shut tight (one two three) and opens them again, making out the figure of Meg pushing herself to her feet unsteadily. He still sees two of her, but it’s better than the mess of colours, so he huffs out a grunt as she stumbles over to him and collapses on the floor, pressing herself close close close to him, tucking her head in the joint between his shoulder and neck and something in him clicks into place.

“Oh my god,” she whispers, shivering as she presses herself even closer against him. Lifting his arm feels like a huge effort but he does it anyway, presses his hand into the small of her back and pulls her impossibly closer still.

The sounds coming from his mouth aren’t actual words, but it’s comforting noise nonetheless, and the rest of the people in the Cornucopia slowly start stirring and moving up into their pairs. There is a broken cry somewhere over his head, and he looks up because it might be a Tribute, someone might have crept in and killed someone else and _oh god_ they had a _plan_ and they can’t fail now.

Thankfully, it’s just Ray the cry comes from, crouched over a stain of red, smeared across the floor, like someone took and cloth and spread the blood all over the area. Ali’s body is missing, and Gavin feels another lump in his throat (because suddenly all he can see is Samantha and the red spreading in the grass, spreading and spreading and staining his nails crimson, “Say sorry to mum and dad for me okay?”).

Wrenching himself from the unwanted thoughts, he sits himself and Meg up (still plastered to his side, not that he’s complaining) and he looks over to where Ray is sitting next to the stain, head bent as though in prayer. He doesn’t hear much, catches the stray words “Good person” and “Rest in peace” and “Heaven” in the wind, and closes his eyes briefly. Because that was too close. It could’ve been any of them.

Joel is standing close by, and Gavin notices (he _always_ notices) the almost nonexistent space between them, a hand resting on Ray’s shoulder, thumb moving in circles almost absently. It tears at his heart (they’d both come so close) because when it comes down to it, Joel won’t be able to kill Ray, wide-eyed and terrified and scared, and he can almost see the way Joel would let himself be killed _for_ Ray, sees the way he won’t hesitate to make sure Ray is the one that holds out longer. Meg breathes against his neck, forms the words “I’m sorry Ali Baker” against his skin, making Gavin shut his eyes tightly and nod slightly in agreement.

“She was a good girl,” he whispers, just loud enough for her to hear.

“She didn’t deserve to die,” she replies, face still pressed into the juncture where neck meets shoulder. “She never even killed anyone the year she won.”

That closes Gavin’s throat up, and it takes longer than he’s comfortable with for him to let out a shaky breath. “At least we know she’s in a better place now.”

They stay there, pressed against each other as Ray continues his whispered prayer and Joel anchors him to the here and now, Kara, Jack, Caiti, Barbara and Michael are shifting quietly behind them, and Gavin pictures them likewise curled up around each other as they wait for Ray to say his goodbye.

“She wasn’t much,” Ray finally says making everyone look up. It’s closure, they can tell, and his voice is rough and shaky but sure nonetheless. “But she was family.” They share a minute of silence, Gavin replaying the scene in his head, the sharp end of the scythe that had appeared through her chest glistening with fresh blood. Meg shudders against him but pulls away, and he resists the urge to pull her back against him just so he can feel her heart beating against his side (know that she’s alive alive _alive_ ).

Meg clears her throat and all eyes turn to her. “Then I guess it’s time for us to bust those Tributes the fuck up.”

When Gavin turns, Michael’s grinning at him, bright and feral and manic around the edges, and Gavin feels himself returning the look with a wide smile of his own (and if he’s baring more teeth than usual, no one says anything). “We’ve got a lightning tree to catch.”

They make quick work of the remaining items in the Cornucopia, packing and tying things together and getting their bearings of the area. With a nod, Gavin glances carefully at Meg before moving off with Barbara and Jack who are heading into the forest and setting up base beneath a tree.

“We should get a couple of twigs and things, set up a fire,” Barbara says as Jack starts unpacking his bag. “The smoke’ll definitely get the Career pack out on the beach.”

“And these,” Jack continues, gesturing to the contents of his pack, “Should be gathered and kept near the fire so that they’ll have an incentive to approach the fire and actually come out onto the beach. They’ll think we left our supplies out in the open and try to steal ‘em.”

Gavin frowns. “These Tributes aren’t fresh blood,” and the two of them look at him, surprised. “They can probably smell a trap a mile away, and a fire and unguarded supplies? Even they should be smart enough to know that we’re _better_ than this, they’ll be suspicious.”

“What do you think we should do then?” Barbara says, looking at him with a mix of admiration and wariness.

His fingers tighten fractionally on his bow. “I say we give them a good show.”

Which is how Barbara ends up with Jack on the beach, Gavin high up and hidden in one of the nearby trees. Meg and Kara had passed by earlier, and he’d pulled her aside and pressed his momento into her palm. “I won’t leave without you,” he had breathed into her hair, and she’d nodded in response, determination in her eyes.

“I won’t leave without you either.”

Kara had joined them shortly after as Meg darted back into the forest, sparing him one last glance before vanishing into the darkness of the undergrowth. The sky is rapidly darkening as Kara joins in the commotion on the beach, standing and yelling angrily at Jack and Barbara.

“Are you fucking insane?” and Gavin winces, because boy is she _loud_. The remnants of a fire they’d started earlier is dying out by their feet, and their supplies are wrapped up in neat packages sitting in a ditch a short distance away. “Where are the rest?”

“None of your goddamned business,” Barbara retorts, and Gavin’s grip on his bow tightens fractionally. Jack is rising from where he’d been sitting, hands clenched at his side, and painting an absolutely furious and terrifying picture, especially for someone his size. Gavin is glad he isn’t stuck down on the beach with the three of them, and shifts slightly from his vantage point in the branches.

“Would you _shut up_ ,” he hisses, advancing on Kara with every step. “We don’t need the rest to know we’re here. That’s the whole point of _stealing these fucking supplies_.”

Kara bares her teeth and closes the remaining distance between them, planting her palms on his chest and _shoving_ , hard. Jack looks surprised, takes a small step backwards, but otherwise stands his ground. “You fucking traitors,” she spits out, eyes wild and voice accusatory. “You _fucking traitors_. Wait till Gavin and Meg hear about this, or Michael, or _fucking Caiti_ ,” Jack flinches as though hit at the mention of her name, but doesn’t visibly react otherwise. Barbara takes a step forward and narrows her eyes at her.

“Oh, like _you’re_ not planning on killing everyone in their sleep.”

Jack growls again but doesn’t say anything, and Kara grins at them nastily. “Well I sure do hope those fucking Careers find you. Because you set up a smoke signal that can be seen from the _entire fucking Arena_.” And then she finally steps back, shaking her head reproachfully, eyes burning with righteous anger. “We had a pact you motherfuckers. We had a _pact_. I hope you two die a fucking terrible death.”

And she spins on her heel and vanishes into the forest, Gavin listening out for her footsteps getting further and further away until he can’t tell where she is from his lookout. He turns his attention back to the two at the campsite, both so riled up and tightly coiled they look like they’re ready to snap.

The sky is completely darkened now, and Gavin takes a steadying breath. Everything could go to shit if the Careers don’t turn up now. They have one shot at this and they’ve laid the bait, now, it’s up to whatever higher powers may be that the Career pack is alert enough to notice the commotion and stupid enough to come running for blood. _Please_ , he prays fervently as he shifts his stance on the branch he’s seated on. _Please let this work_.

A couple more minutes go by without so much as a squeak from below, and Gavin’s really no good with all this _waiting_ , so it’s making him antsy and understandably impatient. _Come on_ , he silently pleads. _Any time now_.

He doesn’t notice it at first, but Barbara and Jack grow quiet by the campsite and he immediately perks up, straining hard to hear any stray noises. As far as he knows, between him and Kara, both long range weapons have been taken, unless there had been more than one bow, or someone else had chosen to arm themselves with a spear or throwing knives. There is an unmistakable rustle, and he crouches low and blinks until his vision is adjusted to the gloom, spotting three shadowed figures just beyond the edge of the forest. Their weapons are still sheathed, no giveaway gleam in the dark night, and he holds his breath and _waits_.

The first shadow slinks out without a sound, keeping to the shadows at the edge of the forest, a small lithe figure (probably female), light on her feet as she weaves in between the trees. The second figure is considerably more built but just as silent and nimble, ducking beneath branches without so much as a snap of twigs beneath his feet. Which leaves the third all alone, crouched beneath a nearby tree and just _watching_. Gavin estimates the distance between the Careers, and figures there’s no way they can see their third comrade; if he were to give him the drop now, no one would notice until it is too late.

For good measure, he cocks his bow and counts to fifteen, both shadows flitting in and out of the corner of his vision, definitely trying to get in position to ambush both Barbara and Jack. When they’re sufficiently far away, he releases his bow with a short exhale. The Career drops dead without a small thump, just loud enough for Barbara and Jack – who are nearer to his position than his teammates – to notice.

“Something’s not right,” Barbara whispers loudly, but plays up to her damsel in distress role well enough. “We should leave.”

Jack shakes his head but doesn’t offer any explanation, and Gavin catches a sliver of movement before both Careers leap out into the open, both holding wicked looking broadswords and circling them dangerously.

“Alex,” one calls loudly, and spares a quick glance towards the trees. “Alex?” he calls again, louder this time, exchanging a glance with the girl.

“Dead,” someone else calls, and _oh god_ there are three more Tributes joining them out on the beach, blocking off Barbara and Jack’s escape route. “Found an arrow in him. Careful of the _boy on fire_ probably perched somewhere in the trees.”

The way he says his name sounds like an insult in itself, and Gavin tenses because his cover is blown. He chances a glance at the lightning tree. No signal, no flare, _nothing_ , and notches another arrow into his bow. It’s now or never, and despite having confidence in both Barbara and Jack’s skills with their own choice of weapons, he really doesn’t want them hurt when the lightning tree lights up ( _if_ the lightning tree lights up, because he’s a realist, and what are the chances the Gamemakers will be kind to them this year?). He aims for the one closest to the forest, the one that’ll leave the quickest route for both Barbara and Jack to get off the beach when he drops dead, and tries to steady the shaking in his hands. _Any second now_ , he wills the Gamemakers. _Any second now would be nice_.

The biggest Career, presumably their leader, scoffs from where he’s standing and folds his arms. “Caught you two like mice in a trap. You traitors are not worth a quick and painless death.”

The remaining members of the pack roar out their agreement, shuffling forward menacingly and growling at them. Jack and Barbara play the terrified look well, and Gavin wills them to stay in character _just a little bit longer_.

A red flare lights up with a bang, and all heads turn to it immediately, and Gavin only gives himself a second before he releases the arrow and hears the low thump of it finding its mark, the Career collapsing like a sack of potatoes. Barbara and Jack don’t need any more cues, immediately diving out of range and vanishing into the forest, finding the nearest tree and scaling it as Gavin whirls around and uses the small knife he’d gotten his hands on to cut the string that is pulling a small sapling forward, holding it in place like a slingshot. The rope gives and the tree shoots upright, supplies flying well above the Careers’ heads and Gavin barely has anytime to appreciate the _flawlessness_ of his plan or the outraged expressions on the faces of the remaining Tributes when the lightning strikes.

The sound is near deafening, but its effect is almost instantaneous. There are screams and yells of pain before they fall to the ground, a convulsing, spasming mess, hoarse cries tearing at their throats as they continue to twitch with each second longer the lightning strikes the tree. There is blood staining the soles of their feet, and Gavin knows what an electrical burn is, has seen it before, but seeing it _now_ coupled with the loss of muscle control and dying pleas of the Tributes make it that much worse. Jack is avoiding the sight, working methodically to cut down their supplies and splitting them amongst their bags, while Kara has reunited with them, standing stock still next to Barbara, mouth set in a grim line. Barbara’s face is pale and exhausted, and Gavin knows he doesn’t look any better.

“Let’s regroup,” he says instead, ignoring the Tributes somewhere behind them begging for mercy, and starts trekking through the forest when they all start at a particularly pitiful wail. It’s just carnage and death and destruction behind them, so he resolutely doesn’t turn back, even though the image of the dying and battered human corpses is burned into his eyelids.

It’s when his back is turned and he’s trying to breathe through the phantom smell of charred flesh that they jump him, pinning him down and knocking his weapons out of his reach. “Be quiet,” Kara hisses, and there’s something sharp piercing his wrist, and it _hurts goddammit_ so he continues to struggle and fight them off.

They _lied_ he think as a knife pries open his skin and he can’t help the yell of pain as something is forcibly yanked out of his wrist. They _betrayed_ him and now he’s going to die here and Meg’s going to be left unguarded, he’s gotta save her he’s gotta save her he’s gotta save her–

The weight lifts off of him in a second, and suddenly he’s all alone in the forest, bleeding heavily from a deep incision on his forearm. He stumbles over to his bow and quiver and scales the nearest tree, despite his wrist screaming in protest with each movement, making out the distinctive shadows of the people by the lightning tree. _Don’t trust them!_ he wants to cry out, beg Meg to just runrunrun and leave these people behind. (If he’d been a bit calmer his rational brain would’ve wondered what they could’ve possibly gained from doing _nothing_ but pinning him down and digging something out of him, why they wouldn’t just gut him and kill him with a hand over his mouth, no one would even hear his screams – he _does_ think about it later, but only when it’s all over and it’s too late.)

But yet here he is, scanning the figures anxiously, until he sees a makeshift slingshot, definitely created by Ray, and a long, thin branch goes flying into sky as lightning hits the tree yet again. His last conscious thought is _wow, they could do with better aim_ before something cracks overhead, like thunder splitting the sky open, and the arena shudders and breaks apart, raining fire from above.

The leaves around him are alight with _red orange yellow white hot_ flames and everything blacks out.

 

 

It’s the throbbing pain at the back of his head that wakes him up, makes him hiss as he sits, and he belatedly realises that he doesn’t recognise this place. He turns to his left and there’s a redhead there, with freckles on pale skin, leg wrapped in a cast. Two dark haired men, one slightly older than the other, are sleeping stretched out in similar cots near the head of his bed, and he stands on unsteady legs as the ground beneath him shifts and nearly unbalances him.

 _Meg_.

It comes back in a rush, and he fights the urge to just slit all their throats before they can even wake up. He finds a scalpel and tucks it up the sleeve of his loose gown (someone changed him into something more comfortable, but it just makes him feel more exposed) and he leaves quietly, walking across the narrow hallway to the room directly opposite. He sees three shadows behind the frosted glass and tightens his grip on the scalpel, releasing a quiet breath. He can do this.

Everything happens in a blur, he has the scalpel pressed against the throat of the nearest man while he slots himself behind, using said man as a shield, growling out warnings as he inches them closer to the door. “Where’s Meg?” and his voice is rough from disuse and possible smoke inhalation, but they hear his question loud and clear anyway. No one answers. “Did I fucking stutter?” he grits out harshly, pressing the scalpel even more firmly against skin. He doesn’t even realise how badly he’s trembling until a hand wraps around his wrist and holds it steady.

“Gavin,” and Gavin _knows_ that voice. It takes a second to place it, but he recognises Burnie soon enough, and his surprise is all it takes for said man to spin out of his grip and reverse their positions, pressing him firmly against the glass door. “Gavin,” he repeats, sounding like he’s trying to calm a frightened animal. But he’s not an animal for god’s sake, and _where’s Meg?_

“Fuck,” he spits out as his vision swims, and he only distantly registers the pain in his wrist. (They’re holding him down, and he doesn’t stand a chance even as he fights against the weight on his arms and legs, someone is sliding a blade against his wrist it hurts so much he wants to scream.) “Where’s Meg?” he asks again, because they didn’t answer him the first time, and if they keep evading the question Gavin isn’t going to be kind and go easy on them; he’s going to start spitting and clawing his way through the people in the room until _someone gives him an answer_. “You promised,” he spits out, jaw aching from the angle his face is mashed up against the door. “You promised to keep her alive.”

The silence in the room is resounding and weighs heavily on him, and for a moment he can’t breathe past the blinding pain in his head or the implications of all the unsaid words hanging on their heads.

 _No._ “You saved _Joel and Ray and Michael_. She was _with them_. You couldn’t save her too?”

“Gavin,” someone else says, but he shuts his eyes and tries to drown out their words, fighting against the phantom prickling of tears.

“Is she dead?” he asks before they can start feeding him lies, teeth clenched so hard he’s sure something’s going to snap. Again, no one answers and he feels a swooping sensation in his stomach, and he swallows down the bile rising in his throat. “Just tell me if she’s dead.”

It sounds more like a plea than anything else, and finally, _finally_ Burnie loosens his hold enough to say, “We don’t think she is. With any luck the Capitol is just holding her prisoner.”

_Using her as leverage to get back at me, torturing her for information, crushing her in hopes of stopping the rebellion that is just seconds away from erupting in the poorer Districts._

The choked out cry that sounds in the room startles even Gavin, until he realises it’s his mouth that’s moving and his breath that is staining the glasses, vision blurring as he chants “Let me go, I got to get to her, you promised, you fucking promised.”

He’s struggling so much against Burnie’s hold that he doesn’t even notice the prick of a needle against the side of his neck, mind continually conjuring pictures of Meg dying, Meg dead, Meg begging for them to _just kill her please_ , and the last thing he hears are his screams (so broken, so empty, and _not Meg, Burnie fucking promised_ ) as he slips into unconsciousness.

 

 

Waking up the second time round is no easier than the first. It takes awhile to get his bearings, finding himself considerably calmer when he remembers what happened, and he fights his body into a sitting position that doesn’t lessen the the pounding in his head. He’s in a room, well, half of a room, with concrete floors, main walls made of one-way mirrors, and a glass partition down the middle. The bed he’s lying on is hard as hell, and his back hurts like he’s been lifting bags of coals in the mines for days on end (it happened once, and he couldn’t move for _days_ afterwards, just lay in bed with his mum running soothing hands up and down his back as she talked him through the worst of his pain). The first thing he notices is Michael sitting in the other half of the room, fingers deftly working through cords of rope, knotting his way down its length.

His fingers itch with their own need to do something, so he clenches them in his bedsheets, using it to ground himself before pushing himself onto his feet, the movement catches Michael’s attention and breaks the unnerving silence in the room.

“So you’re finally awake,” Michael says, but there’s no humour in it, and this Michael – the one that keeps knotting, slumped against the wall in the other half of the room, quiet, reclusive, and haunted beyond belief – is nothing like the Michael in the Arena, who’d been loud, brash _full of himself_ , absolutely in his element.

“Where are we? What happened?” and he leaves the question at that, lets Michael choose what he wants to tell Gavin (lets him choose what he wants to hide), and he prays that it’s nothing too terrible, like they’ve been captured and they’re torturing–

_Oh god._

“We’re in District 13,” is the reply he gets instead, and Michael doesn’t offer him any more information, so Gavin settles for stunned silence as Michael’s fingers don’t pause, keeps looping and knotting and _over and under and pull_. His brain is working a mile a minute (District 13, wasn’t it razed to the ground in a storm of fire and ash, buried beneath layers of dust and rotting carcasses when the planes flew overhead, bombs whistling loudly as they fell fell fell, explosions rocking the earth beneath their feet and the people in District 12 had hid in their homes through the massive earthquake that followed, the mines caving in with each tremor, killing more and more men, leaving even more men stranded beneath the tunnels only to be crushed by falling rubble–), when the door swishes open and Burnie comes strolling into his half of the room, expression set and unforgiving.

It sets Gavin on edge, and he has his words ready on the tip of his tongue, accusations and pleas and _liar liar liar_ forming on his lips.

“We need to get you up to speed,” Burnie says first, and the words die in Gavin’s throat, because this is _important_. This means that they’ll tell him where Meg is. Burnie looks at him warily when he doesn’t make demands, and offers instead that “Meg has been on television once now, and we are making plans to stage a rescue.” Michael perks up at that, and strolls – a picture of false serenity – up to the glass partition, pressing his palm against it.

“What about Lindsay?”

“Lindsay, Meg, Jack, Caiti, Kara – anyone who’s one of ours and stuck in the Capitol, we’re going to get them out.”

Gavin’s heart leaps at that because _Meg is still alive_ , and while she breathes they ( _he_ ) still have hope, so he nods and drums his fingers against his thigh absently, starting to run scenarios through his head. Michael’s breathing has turned harsh, and his fingers curl into fists, and maybe if Gavin had been really looking at him he’d have noticed the terror and fear and loss in his expression. But as it is, Gavin just keeps drumming (one, two, one, three, fourfivetwo) against his thigh and says “Tell me what you need me to do.”

Burnie nods, stepping back and gesturing to the door. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

What they need him to do turns out to be going through stacks and stacks of paper, each with plans (detailed ones, sketchy ones, implausible ideas) outlined in neat black script. Someone’s obviously been planning this for awhile now, and when Geoff and Griffon walk into the room when he’s on his sixteenth plan (go into the Capitol in disguise during one of those massive parties that their President is so fond of throwing, use the party as a means to ambush the President and kill him in front of all the guests to make a statement: which is pretty brilliant actually, but only if their army consists of more than Victors from previous years who will be recognised the minute they step into the Capitol) and he’s _exhausted_ but it’s Geoff and Griffon, so he pushes everything aside and turns a grin to them.

Griffon cards fingers through his hair and he leans into the touch.

(District 12 is gone, burned to the ground, and they should’ve been more careful with _everything_ because it was not just their lives at stake, it has never been _just about_ Gavin and Meg, it’s also been about their families and their friends and their home. They hadn’t been able to find anyone from his home – anyone that mattered to him at least – and the whole thing is so surreal: the silent sobbing of the children walking through the corridors in neat little rows, the infirmary overflowing with the injured and wounded, the homeless lining the corridors, those who’ve had everything ripped away from them. He hadn’t asked about his mum, old and frail and who’d been starting to forget; his heart thumps with hurt when he thinks about it so he doesn’t. He hasn’t needed to think, or talk to anyone from the District. Hasn’t gone to see Dan – thank god he’s okay, Gavin’s not sure what he’d do if they’d told him Dan hadn’t made it.

They play him Meg’s video after they’ve given him a tour of the compound. She’s sitting in front of the camera, as fierce and as beautiful as the day he’d last seen her. There are faint bruises on her face, shadows beneath her eyes, but her eyes haven’t lost that fire and he’s just so _relieved_ they haven’t snuffed the fight out of her. The momento he’d given her is hidden just beneath the white press of the collar of her shirt, and he absently traces the shadow of it as someone off-camera starts talking to her, asking her questions that she answers without any inflection in her voice. “Gavin,” Burnie had called out a minute later, and he’d jerked his fingers away from the screen as though burnt. “Pay attention.” He’d sat back then, fists clenched by his side and listened to the interview in detail. She’s reciting answers but she doesn’t look like she believes half of what she’s saying, eyes blazing with defiance. When they ask her about him and _the baby_ she turns away, but a hand comes into frame, grips her neck and forces her to face the front as they repeat the question again, a warning about what she’d get if she doesn’t play along. His nails are biting into his palm, and not for the first time he wishes he had something to do with his hands.

After his third time of watching the interview, he’s memorised every response, every inflection of her voice, every tilt of her head, every look in her eyes. When they start the fourth rerun, he stands, toppling over the chair he’d been sitting on and drawing the attention of everyone in the room to him. “You said you needed to show me something,” and their little session ends, Meg’s face freezing on the screen. He spares her one more glance – _I’m going to get you home_ – before leaving with the rest of them. He doesn’t know why it feels like he’s leaving Meg behind too.)

They don’t say anything as they settle into the seats opposite him, Griffon’s fingers still running through his hair and Geoff propping his legs up on the desk as he flips through a couple of sheets of paper.

For a moment, he can pretend they’re family and he’s watching his mum and dad at work, and for five _blessed_ minutes, the world outside falls away, all the fighting and the bloodshed and the death crumbles to the wayside and he’s just _Gavin Free_ again.

“We heard about Meg,” Griffon says, and she shoots a slightly worried look at him, carefully gauging his reaction. “I’m so sorry.”

He squeezes his eyes shut because the reality of his situation comes crashing down on him with those words and _he can’t breathe_. (He hasn’t had time to grieve, to think properly about Meg in the Capitol or his mother being consumed by fire, hasn’t had time for everything that’s happening to etch itself into his brain. Everything is too unreal, moving too fast, and he’s gone from playing a star-crossed lover to planning a war in a heartbeat. He takes a minute to swallow the hurt clawing its way up his throat, voices in his head a litany of _she’s not dead, she’s not, she can’t be_.)

“It’s gonna be alright sweetheart,” Griffon continues, fingers a soothing presence against his scalp, helping him calm the thoughts in his head. He leans towards her, needing the comfort, needing the words (needing the _lies_ ).

“We’re going to fix this,” Geoff adds, carefully straightening out the paper that he’d unintentionally crushed in his fingers (curled too tight). “We’re going to bring them home.”

They shepherd him out to the mess hall for dinner when he finally stops listing sideways, flanking either side of him and _daring_ anyone to make a spectacle about the state he’s in (shadows under his eyes, hair a mess, mouth drawn thin and tight lines around his eyes). Dan appears out of nowhere and engulfs him in a huge hug when he sees him, comforting and warm and familiar and _home_. He’s grown in the time Gavin’s been away, shoulders broader, his frame now built like a soldier’s, a fierce determination burning in his eyes. As they join the line for food, he tells Gavin about how he’s the Captain of a small unit that patrols the borders every half a day, looking out for stray Peacekeepers and making sure no one knows they’re still alive. “It won’t be long now,” he tells Gavin as they get their food from the nice lady behind the counter, looking at him with an expression so hopeful Gavin hopes his own smile is not as pinched as he thinks it is. “Won’t be long before they realise the numbers don’t add up, that the burnt bodies lining the streets can’t be all there is to our numbers. And when they realise, they’re going to strike, and they’re going to strike hard.”

His eyes go dark and haunted as he says this, and Gavin leans forward, pressing his hand on top of Dan’s, and he hopes that that is enough to anchor him in the here and now. There is a flash of something, sadness, pain, loss, but Dan just shakes his head, and looks back at him, eyes losing their lost and faraway look.

“They’ve razed us to the ground before, but they won’t get the chance to do it again,” and there it is, the _soldier_ , sitting opposite him with his back ramrod straight, poised and ready for battle. “Because this time, we’ll be ready. We’ll be ready to defend our people and fight to the last man.” Gavin squeezes his hand at his words, and briefly wonders what kind of hurts lie beneath Dan’s skin. What change could’ve happened when Gavin had turned the other way that’s made Dan into the soldier he is today, nothing like the best friend that’d taught him how to set traps for animals or chased him through the forest and couldn’t use a bow and arrow properly. _This_ Dan – although Gavin wouldn’t mind going into war with him, knows that he’ll always have his back – is all hard lines and blood on his hands, eyes distant and cold and calculating, so full of cracks beneath the surface, all hidden behind a shell that’s so tough Gavin feels like he won’t be able to touch _Dan_ ever again. Somewhere, somehow, their dynamics have shifted, and it’s _Dan_ Gavin relies on now, no longer the other way around.

“My mum,” he says, and the words catch in his throat. “She didn’t make it did she.”

It’s a statement, a fact that Dan doesn’t deny, and Gavin briefly presses the heel of his palm to his eyes, presses so hard that he sees stars bursting behind his eyelids. “I’m sorry,” Dan says, and it’s his turn to press his hand to Gavin’s wrist. “I tried to get there as soon as possible, but everything was burning and I couldn’t find her.”

Gavin nods, he _understands_ , but it doesn’t make it any easier. “I miss her.”

“I know you do,” Dan replies softly, “But there’s no time to grieve right now. You’ve got others, you’ve got to move on. And maybe, when this is all over, we’ll honour the dead properly, the way we did back in 12.”

Heaving in a shuddering breath, he finally manages a small smile. “You guys must’ve been waiting for me.”

Dan grins at that, but Gavin hears some truth in his reply. “You have no idea.”

The rest of the evening is spent in the conference room, a headache blooming behind his eyelids as Burnie drones on and on about plans. There are so many things that could go wrong, and Gavin wants to point it out, wants to tell them how unlikely it is that they’ll succeed. They’re rushing things, Gavin can tell, knows they’re working on a tight schedule and that they never know when the enemy will strike, so the sooner they have everything in place the better. But he’s _exhausted_ , so he can’t bring himself to protest when Burnie outlines a frankly _suicidal_ mission that, scarily enough, has everyone in the room nodding in agreement. People are going to _die_ from these half-assed plans, but it’s the best they’ve got, and unless this goddamned _headache_ doesn’t leave he’s not going to be able to come up with better solutions.

The television screen suddenly buzzes to life.

Meg is there again, face sallower than he remembers, eyes dull and dead. Her hair is pulled up off her face and does nothing to hide the bruises lining her throat or the prominence of her cheekbones. She looks so thin, like she may topple over at the slightest breeze, and Gavin catches the awkward angle of her arm, the way she favours her left side over her right. The camera pans onto her face and he sees the silver line of a healing cut on her cheek, hands immediately fisting at his side.

She isn’t wearing his momento anymore.

The interviewer asks her standard questions (“What’s your name?” “Which District are you from?” “How’s the Capitol been treating you?”) to which she replies without any sort of fight. It’s scary, watching this interview, and his whole body aches with not being able to touch her, not being able to reach out and pull her into his arms and whisper into her hair, chase away the demons that have their claws around her mind. The interview is over too fast, and Gavin thinks the screen is going to blink black, but the camera simply pans out and suddenly the President is there, standing next to Meg and curling a possessive hand around the nape of her neck. She flinches at the contact but keeps perfectly still otherwise, expression schooled back into one of careful indifference.

“We know you’re still out there,” and Gavin feels the tension in the room skyrocket immediately, and not for the first time, he really wishes he has something to do with his hands. “ _Rebels_ , as you’re so fond of calling yourselves. Now, boy on fire, if you’re as _in love_ as you claim to be, you’d give yourself up, and maybe, just _maybe_ , we’d let her go.”

Gavin’s focus narrows down to Meg’s expression on the screen, pinched but suddenly burning, and he notices a muscle jump in her jaw.

“If you don’t show up here in three days, _she’s going to die_ , public execution, _firing squad_. How’d you like to see your beloved girl torn to shreds by a hailstorm of bullets?”

He doesn’t realise he’s advancing towards the screen until Dan and Geoff approach him in his peripheral vision and place gentle hands on his arms. They’re muttering something to him, but all he can see is Meg lunging out of the President’s grip and flying for the camera, screaming “Don’t come here Gavin! They’ll just kill us both! It’s a trap, it’s a trap, it’s a–”

The screen blinks black, and suddenly the only sound in the room is his hoarse cry as he rips himself from Dan and Geoff’s grip and sprints for the screen. “Meg!” he’s yelling as he shakes the blank screen. “Meg,” but the screen doesn’t turn on again. They’ve lost the broadcast. “They’re hurting her,” he sobs and clutches desperately at the screen, “Please, let me go to the Capitol and–”

“ _Gavin_ ,” it’s Burnie that’s prying the screen from his grip, kneeling in front of him and forcing him to look up. “We _can’t_.”

“What do you mean we can’t,” Gavin grits out. “It’s my life for hers. It’s _my life_. I can choose who to die for.”

“You know your life is no longer your own,” Burnie replies gently. “There are thousands of us here counting on you now.”

“But Meg–”

“Gavin–”

“We could save her in time right?” he says hopefully, finally glancing around to meet the eyes of everyone in the room. “Strike before the three days are up?”

There’s a pregnant pause, a moment of hesitation, and then Burnie’s shaking his head and Gavin’s stomach bottoms out. “We need more time to prepare, the fighters, our weapons, our battle plan. We _can’t_ do it in three days. And I won’t send people out there before everything’s planned out.”

And Gavin _gets it_ , that there are far more lives than his and hers at stake here, that they need him as a symbol, and if he turns himself in, it doesn’t mean they’ll let her go. But as it is, he isn’t feeling very rational, so he struggles to his feet and starts stalking out the door. “If none of you are going to save her, then I will.”

Someone tackles him from behind and he instinctively fights back, throws punches that he hopes _hits_ and claws at skin and eyes. “Hold him down!” he hears Burnie yelling. “We’ve got to get him back into containment!”

That just makes him struggle harder still, kicking and screaming so violently he doesn’t even feel the phantom pinprick on his neck until the whole world blacks out. He really hates being put under.

 

 

He wakes up in the glass room again, with Michael still, unnervingly, sitting in his half of the room, back against the wall, knotting his length of rope again and again and again. When he wakes, he immediately heads for the door he remembers Burnie coming in through and starts banging on it, yelling at someone, anyone, to _please let him out please_.

“It’s locked on the outside,” Michael quips up after he’s reduced to a sobbing, boneless mess against the smooth surface of the wall. “We can’t get out, I’ve tried.”

Gavin rests his head against the wall, feeling defeated. “They can’t keep us locked in here forever.”

“Well, they’re going to try. At least until they’re sure we aren’t going to run out of the District and go on some suicide mission to save–” Michael’s voice chokes off, and Gavin notices the stilling of his hands on the rope, before they smoothly resume their movement.

“They’re going to kill Meg in three days.”

Michael doesn’t even stop to look up at him. “I’ve no idea if Lindsay’s still alive.”

And this is _it_ , the two of them, torn from the people they love, who would do anything to get them back, locked up in some _containment unit_ until they can be sure they’re fit for duty (or at least until Meg and Lindsay are dead, then they’d know they have nothing left to sacrifice themselves for except the greater good of the country). “I thought Barbara would be here.”

“She’s not as stupid as me,” Michael shrugs.

“What’d you do?”

“Punched two guards in the face the moment I woke up, gave your boyfriend, _Dan_ or something, a scar on his chest when he’d tried to subdue me. They’ve never let me out since.”

“Yeah?” Gavin chuckles weakly. “Joel and Ray?”

“Living the dream somewhere else in this godforsaken place,” Michael sighs. “At least some of us get our happy endings.”

“I hope Jack and Caiti are alright. Kara too,” he sighs, but Michael doesn’t respond. Keeps knotting away at his rope. “Think I can ask for one of those?”

Michael looks up at that and shrugs. “You could give it a shot.”

The rest of the night is spent in silence, Gavin finally crawling into bed his head starts protesting again. But even as he lays down he knows sleep won’t come to him, not when Meg’s still out there.

“Can’t sleep huh,” Michael quips up from where he’s also moved to his bed.

“Yeah,” and they don’t say another word the rest of the night, just laying in bed and staring emptily at the ceiling, willing his thundering heart to stop beating and just let everything fall away. Wish he could at least be with Meg, because she’s the only kind of comfort that he’s ever wanted.

“We should plan something,” Michael says the next morning, still not looking at him. “Get the fuck out of this room, go into the Capitol and save our girls.”

Gavin raises an eyebrow at that. They _could_. They’re both Victors, they could probably come up with a decent plan between the both of them. “What do you propose?”

“I don’t know, aren’t you the planning guy?”

Which is how he finds himself waiting for Burnie to come into the room with two balls, after giving him the excuse that just sitting there doing nothing is _driving him crazy_. As soon as the door swishes open, Michael swings the lamp at him and knocks him out cold, and Gavin grabs the small rubber balls from his hand before pushing Burnie fully into the room and slipping out with Michael. He’d gotten a good feel of the place the day before, but Michael had strangely been able to remember the locations of most of the cameras in the place, so they’d been careful to duck in and out of the shadows, avoiding been seen. They’re almost out the door when someone starts yelling for them to stop, so they give up all pretence of hiding and full out sprint for the door. Except Michael isn’t exactly used to walking in his new foot, so he’s slightly slower, but Gavin pulls ahead and yanks the door open for the both of them, hustling Michael out and towards the weaponry.

They’re almost there when they bump into Dan and his men, who shoot them pitiful looks and slowly form a circle around them. “Gavin,” Michael hisses, widening his stance and getting ready to fight. “Tell your boyfriend to back the fuck off.”

“He’s not my–” but someone lunges for him and topples him over the same time Michael throws himself at the nearest man. Gavin is being pinned by a man almost twice his size, but he manages to get his legs under the guy and kick upwards, hearing a short “Oof” that lets him push the man off, scrambling upright. Three man are taking on Michael, but he seems to be doing fine, ducking and weaving expertly through their punches and kicks, so he turns his attention back to the remaining men. One he takes out with a blow to the temple, ducking just below the punch that is thrown his way and lunging up fast, stunning the man into unconsciousness. He spins before he can see the man fall, and steps back in time to avoid a vicious kick. He drops to the floor as the man throws another high kick and swings himself onto his back, using the momentum to knock the man’s legs out from under him, sending him falling to the floor and hitting his head with a loud crack. He pushes himself onto his feet and brings himself around for another kick to the person behind him. It’s Dan, who catches his foot easily and holds him in position.

“I’m sorry Gavin,” he says, and Gavin never sees the punch coming, only feeling the desperation clawing at his insides as he falls to the floor.

They’re tied up and brought back to their room, being carted past a very pissed Burnie and disappointed looks from everyone else. Gavin doesn’t regret it, and neither does Michael, from the way he’s glaring at everyone, but when the door hisses shut behind him, he slumps to the floor and lets his head fall onto his knees, feeling his shoulders sagging in defeat.

“What now?” Michael asks, but Gavin doesn’t have an answer for him.

It’s all a horrible nightmare.

 

 

Meg dies on a sunny day, the sky blue and clouds drifting lazily overhead. It’s too cheerful a scene, and Gavin sits at the edge of his cot with his hands clutching at the metal of the bed frame, feeling the shard edges bite into the skin of his palm. The images on screen are too faraway to be real, and he wills the reel to stop rolling, someone to call out “Stop!” and for the horrible nightmare to end. And a _horrible nightmare it is_.

She’s on her knees, head bagged and bowed, and the President comes sauntering out into view. “Boy on fire, this is your last chance,” he says, but is only met by silence. Gavin wants to go, wills himself to just _appear_ there, stop everything and save Meg (because he made a promise that he hadn’t even kept, and oh god he’s such a _failure_ , he couldn’t even keep her safe). But as it is, a grin just spreads on the President’s face, ugly and menacing, as he steps back. “Very well then.”

Gavin leans impossibly forward. He still has time, he can escape and then–

And then what?

“Get ready,” the President says somewhere offscreen, and a masked man comes forward, ripping the bag off her head. Meg looks resigned, but she stares resolutely into the camera.

“Don’t give up,” she starts to say. “Keep fighting, don’t let my death be in vain.”

Gavin is crying now, tears falling unbidden and he shakes and shakes and shakes in his skin. (It’s not real, please let me wake up from this horrible nightmare. _It’s not fucking real._ )

“I love you.”

He looks up sharply at that as there is the distinct yell of “Fire!” somewhere off screen and there is the rattling of machine guns. Everything slows down in his head, Meg’s eyes widen as the first bullets hit and then there’s blood splattering everywhere as she’s shredded to bits. She hadn’t stood a chance against the firing squad, she never did. He detachedly watches as the hailstorm of bullets stop and there’s nothing nothing left except a mop of red hair falling to the ground. Distantly, he thinks he hears screaming, someone banging on the door and begging “Let me out please, I can save her, I need to save her, please–” but he can’t be sure, not when the camera pans downwards and shows the bloody remains of the girl that was once his.

One half of the star-crossed lovers is dead.

He keeps watching, mind still detached from his body, notices the way her blood is as red as her hair, watches they replay the tape and her head is again blown to bits and parts of her brain splatter the camera screen before it finally goes dark. In a dream, he leans forward and throws up.

In reality, he leans forward, throws up, and faints into his puddle of puke.

 

 

Everything becomes a blur after that.

He spends his days staring at the ceiling and willing himself to wake up.

Michael keeps sitting in the opposite half of the room, knotting and knotting and knotting.

He starts bouncing the balls they gave him against the walls, relishes the _thump thump thump_ it makes against the mirrors, mind blissfully lulled into blankness at its repetition. It’s predictable, steady, constant, and leaves no space for thinking; he hates thinking, and he suddenly wishes he could have a drink.

That’s how people deal with loss isn’t it? By drinking?

Geoff and Griffon visit him (he thinks), Dan visits him (maybe), Joel and Ray stop by to offer their condolences (unlikely). Barbara sits and strokes his hair until he tells her to “Fuck off” because the fingers are wrong and she doesn’t smell right and there’s blonde where there’s supposed to be red.

Michael doesn’t say anything as Gavin refuses to eat, refuses to drink, instead stares at his own hands and keeps knotting and knotting and knotting.

He almost succeeds in starving himself to death once, but there are people slotting needles into him and force feeding him liquid food, tying his limbs to the bed when he tries to yank out the tubes. It takes almost a week before he convinces them that he won’t try to do it again, that he’ll keep himself alive. (Even then it’s only because Dan sits him down and talks to him, tells him that “It’s true, she’s dead, I’m sorry but there’s nothing we can do.” He holds Gavin’s chin, forces him to look him in the eyes. “No more running away. Keep fighting. You heard her, don’t let her death be in vain.” He’s not ready to leave the room just yet, not ready to meet the people outside – and oh god Meg’s mother and sister – just yet. But he starts eating again.)

Barbara comes in one afternoon, injured, bruises lining her arms and a particularly nasty cut along her jaw.

“We conducted the rescue operation,” she says grimly. “Kara, Jack and Caiti were retrieved.”

No one asks about Lindsay. No one says anything more. She leaves.

When the door clicks shut, Michael screams and throws his rope at the glass, but it doesn’t shatter, doesn’t even rattle. So he screams and screams and screams and screams.

No one gets any sleep that night.

Now they are two men that have lost too much, and as they lay in the room, listening to each other breathe, Gavin doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to do anything ever again. (It’s too much, and he pretends he doesn’t cry along to Michael’s sobs at night.)

Meg’s sister comes in one afternoon and sits next to Gavin, resting her head on his shoulder. “I miss her.”

He wraps and arm around her, and he’s shaking, he knows, but he pulls her in closer, buries his nose in her hair. She smells like medicine and herbs where Meg smelled like forest and rivers. He presses himself closer and holds her tighter as she sobs into his chest. “I miss her too.”

After a moment of shared silence she pulls away. “But we gotta fight for her right?”

“Yeah,” he replies, voice cracking. “I’m sorry.”

“No one blames you Gavin,” she says, eyes wide and too wise for someone her age. “We’ve just got to start fighting for what we deserve.” She’s had to grow up so soon, so fast, that Gavin feels a pang in his heart at the thought. It’s all his fault that she and her mum haven’t been taken good care of; he’s the one who left them to fend for themselves as he wallowed in self-pity after Meg’s death. The public execution must have been as difficult for them as it was for him.

He nods, because she’s right. They’ve got to fight for Meg, and now he’s got to people he needs to take care of (he’s got a purpose in life all over again). “You’re right. I’ll– I’ll start tomorrow.”

She leans into him again, wrapping her arms around his middle, giving him a tight hug. “Thank you.”

And he holds her. For the first time in days, he feels like he can breathe again.

 

 

That night as he lays in bed alone, he notices that Michael’s resumed his knotting (the rope having lain forgotten on the floor as he stared into nothingness the past few days, eyes vacant and expression empty, a shell of the man he once was), rhythm slightly off as his hands shake.

“You okay?” he asks, but doesn’t expect an answer.

Michael stills in his peripheral, hands hovering uncertainly, before placing the length of rope on the ground and standing. Gavin watches as he walks over into his half of the room, the glass door sliding open for him easily. They’ve never done this before, gone into each other’s halves, and this makes Gavin sit up immediately.

“Michael?”

He doesn’t respond, keeps walking until he’s standing in front of Gavin.

“Michael?”

But all he gets in response are Michael’s hands on his shoulders, pushing him down down down, until he’s lying back in bed.

“What are you–”

In one swift movement, Michael’s straddling him, knees braced on either side of Gavin’s thighs, and he feels his pulse skyrocket, hands framing Michael’s waist, fingers pressing down to stop him from moving.

“ _Michael_.”

But he doesn’t hear him, leans down and presses his mouth to Gavin’s ear and whispers “I’m sorry.”

His eyes are glazed over, and Gavin recognises a man out of it when he sees one, but all thoughts fly out of his head as Michael grinds down sharply.

“I’m sorry.”

Gavin gasps against the friction, feels Michael’s semi-hard-on pressing against his thigh, and can’t help feeling something warm start coiling in his gut. Damn his body for betraying him; god knows he isn’t going to do this now, not when Michael’s so out of it, so he tries to tell him. “Michael you’re not–”

Michael ignores him in favour of nibbling on Gavin’s ear, grinding down again, making Gavin lose his train of thought to a choked-out moan, hips canting upwards of its own accord. All thoughts of protest die on his tongue.

As far as first times go, it’s messy, it’s awkward, and Michael has a hand between their bodies, fingers fisted tight around the both of them. They’re both moving against each other and it’s so much, _too much_ as Michael pants harshly against his ear, making Gavin let out a whine as he thrusts upwards, so close, _so so close_ –

As far as first times go, it’s nothing Gavin expects, the red hair too short, the frame too bulky, and when Michael collapses in a boneless heap on top of him, ignoring the sticky mess between them, he buries his face in the space Meg used to bury her face in and whispers against his skin “I’m sorry.”

As far as first times go, it’s far from perfect. He spends the rest of the night in his bed alone, staring at the ceiling and wondering about the clenching in the pit of his gut.

Does he want it to happen again? He’s not sure.

What he is sure about is that he feels more alive than he’s felt in forever, that the sharp thrill of arousal and euphoria of release is at least a _something_ that he can place and experience within these walls. It’s the _after_ that makes his insides churn, and he wonders if those few minutes of being able to _feel_ is worth the guilt churning in the pit of his stomach.

But he’s got a war to plan, so these things can wait. He isn’t living for himself after all, Meg’s sister has reminded him about that, Burnie has reminded him about that, so he shuts his eyes and tries to get some sleep. He’ll start planning tomorrow.

(That night, he dreams of Meg above him, pressing kisses to his jaw as he tangles his fingers in her hair and everything is _perfect_. But when he wakes up, there’s dried cum on his stomach and staining his bedsheets, and Michael is in his half of the room knotting and knotting and knotting. And then the bile is stinging the back of his throat as he tries to breathe and _what the fuck has he done?_ )

 

 

After three days of discussion they finally agree to let Gavin and Michael out of the room. The dynamic between them has shifted but no one notices, because they’re nothing more than insignificant pawns in the greater scheme of things. The plan is simple. Dan is going to lead the attack on the Capitol, with Barbara leading a smaller force of trained fighters through a separate route into the President’s residence. He won’t be too heavily guarded, everyone else would be too busy fighting a war out on the main battlefield.

Michael and Gavin are both under Barbara’s team, and she pulls them aside once the meeting is over. Her hands hover uncertainly over Michael’s, before finally giving in and gripping his hands carefully in hers. Michael doesn’t pull away, but he doesn’t relax into the touch either. “You guys gonna be okay?”

It’s a loaded question, but Gavin knows she won’t push it if they say yes. Michael doesn’t reply, so Gavin does in his stead. “We’ll do what we need to do.”

She nods. “That’s enough for me.”

He takes that as his cue to leave, sparing one last glance at Barbara leaning in and talking softly to Michael, making Gavin’s own chest constrict painfully. God he misses Meg so, so much.

(It doesn’t hurt so bad anymore. Somedays it’s a sharp pain in the chest, like someone’s broken one of his ribs it pierces his lungs and _he can’t breathe_ , and somedays it’s a fist around his heart, squeezing tight tight tight, and it hurts so bad that it makes him curl in on himself and heave, quiet, slowly, _painfully_ , through the tears stinging his eyes. Nowadays, it’s mostly a dull throb and ache below his ribcage. It still doesn’t go away.)

The rest of the afternoon is spent with Dan, the two of them lounging about in one of the empty bunkers – he can almost pretend they’re back at 12 staring up at the sky through the trees. “I’m sorry about the time we tried to beat your team up.”

“We were almost beaten by two guys who were really out of,” Dan shakes his head instead, “We were in really bad shape. Sad thing is, if you guys hadn’t attacked, we wouldn’t have realised how unprepared we were.”

There’s a joke in there somewhere, and Gavin manages a weak chuckle. “Thank god we attacked then.”

Dan shoots him a grin. “Please don’t try it again though.”

“Don’t think we could,” and he must sound a lot more pathetic then he’d thought because Dan’s reaching over and squeezing his arm.

“You be careful during the attack alright?” Gavin shoots him a look that makes Dan huff out a laugh. “Just saying.”

“You’re more likely to get into trouble. I should be the one asking you to stay safe.”

“Knowing you, you’d want to take the shot at the President yourself,” is Dan’s reply. “Let Barbara handle it okay? Not that I don’t trust you, it’s just–”

“That I’m not in the best state of mind right now to make that call. I know.” It’s hard admitting it but Dan’s right. Plus he’s already given himself the pep talk, no need for Dan to put himself through it.

“You want to talk about it?”

Gavin sucks in a breath at that. People have offered, sure, Geoff and Griffon and Ashley and Caiti, but he’s turned them down on the basis of not knowing them well enough. But here’s Dan whom he’s known _forever_ (quite literally, their parents were neighbours who had let their kids play together in their joined backyards when they were old enough to move on their own) and yet he finds himself _still_ not ready to talk about it. “Do you remember the first time you taught me to make a trap?”

“You mean the one you made and then immediately stepped in after? Yeah, that was a bad day. Couldn’t find any animals at all after the huge racket you made.”

It’s a small comfort, but a comfort he’s willing to embrace nonetheless. “You weren’t any better with the bow and arrow.”

“Fuck off,” Dan growls playfully and shoves him hard enough to topple him. But Gavin’s still grinning at the memory.

“You almost snapped my bow in two–”

“–in _frustration_ , mind you–”

“–and the arrow landed like a _hundred feet_ –”

“–it was only a short distance away dammit! Like, slightly off the mark–”

“–away and we didn’t catch _anything_ because you were muttering so ominously to yourself and scared all the critters off.”

“Fuck you,” Dan replies, but there’s no heat to his words, and he reaches over, fondly ruffling Gavin’s hair. He looks like he wants to say something else, thinks it through, hesitates, but finally soldiers on with his words, choosing them a little more carefully as he says, “We also wanted to run away once.”

“Thank god we didn’t,” but Gavin feels his throat closing up with the memory. Oh how _easy_ it would’ve been to just _run and never look back_. They would have been so far out in the woods by now, without a care in the world. Dan and Gavin, they would’ve–

“–made it out there,” Dan says with a sour twist of his mouth. “Sometimes I still regret it, not saying yes when you offered. God I would’ve done _anything_ to take back that moment when you were Reaped.”

Gavin doesn’t say anything because it’s too much to think about, it was the moment that he met Meg and found someone he could love (forever even, maybe) and it was the moment the ground fell away from beneath his feet and he suddenly wasn’t sure where he was anymore. It was the moment the whole world came crashing down on his shoulders as he weighed his life in his palm, watching the train wreck with detached interest as he inspected the night lock (so tiny and unassuming) in his hand.

“You were–” and Gavin _knows_ Dan blames himself, has nightmares about the day he’d been Reaped, had been unable to do anything but stay still under the glare Gavin had given him (“Any volunteers?” _no Dan,_ no _, no fucking way you’re volunteering for me–_ ). “Oh god I can’t believe I just stood there like an _idiot_ and didn’t do anything.”

He’s bent over, face in his hands, and Gavin sits up, running soothing fingers down his back. “Dan–”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and Gavin freezes for a minute because it sounds familiar and yet _wrong_ , but thankfully Dan doesn’t seem to notice. “I’m so, so sorry. I shouldn’t have– I should’ve done _something_.”

“You kept my mum and Meg’s family safe,” he finally manages to say once he’s gotten his tongue working again. “It’s more than we’ve asked for, and you never let us down.”

“But it wasn’t enough,” Dan sighs, shoulders sagging in defeat, and he finally pulls away from the hands covering his face and Gavin isn’t sure what to do now, with Dan’s red-rimmed eyes and resigned look. He settles for squeezing his shoulder instead.

“Honestly, nothing anyone does nowadays is ever enough.”

Dan nods at that, understanding, and shoots Gavin a fleeting smile. “I’ve missed you.”

And the statement completely blindsides him that it leaves him a little unsteady. “So have I,” Gavin replies, throat closing up, and cutting himself off before he breaks down completely (because it’s– _oh god_ , everyone’s only needed or asked for the _boy on fire_ , everyone wants him to be strong when he _isn’t_ , wants him to make rousing speeches and spearhead the attack, no one asks what _he_ wants, or ever wants just _Gavin Free_ ; but Dan does, Dan sees his weaknesses and _god knows why_ , chooses to stick by him, lets him laugh about stupid things and tries to make _him_ – Gavin Free, the boy without the fire – smile, and god it’s too much because this is the _him_ that Dan misses, the one that’s terrible at making traps and talks too much and is never good with feelings, and it’s too much, _too fucking much_ ). Dan notices it anyway – fucking _Daniel Gruchy_ , being a terrible influence and making his swear like a sailor – and pulls him in for a hug that has him clinging on a little too long and a little too tight.

“I’ve got your back B,” and Gavin’s heart breaks a little more at that as he clings on a little longer, a little tighter. “I’ve always got your back.”

 

 

Michael is in his half of the room when he gets back, and barely spares him a glance as he collapses, boneless, onto his cot.

“Had fun with your boyfriend?”

And really, Gavin should _not_ let those words get to him, but god help him they _do_ , so he snaps back a harsh, “What does it matter to you?”

Michael’s hands still, briefly, before he goes back to knotting, slowly but surely. “It doesn’t,” but his words are too tight; Gavin doesn’t believe him.

He feels the fight building up inside of him and _really_ , he should just back off, _right now_ , but he doesn’t. “I think it _does_ matter,” and he starts to stalk over to Michael’s side of the room. “I think,” and he stops right outside the door pressing his palm against it and letting it slide open. “It _bothers_ you. A lot.”

Michael grimaces but doesn’t look up, keeps his eyes fixed on his hands, doesn’t even flinch when Gavin crouches in front of him.

“I think,” he continues, and he knows he’s playing with fire, could be getting in over his head, could be _asking_ to be burnt. But he leans in close and whispers his last words into Michael’s ear anyway. “You don’t like to share.”

He blinks away the stars in his vision, suddenly finding himself on his back and sees Michael leaning over him, eyes dark and hungry. “And what if I don’t?”

It’s nothing like the first time, they fight and bite and claw at each other, tearing off clothes and wrestling for dominance, tussling violently as they both try to get the upper hand. Michael finally ends up on top, pinning him down with his weight as he deftly undoes Gavin’s pants. “Fuck you,” Gavin spits out, but lifts his hips when Michael starts to pull his pants off.

“I intend to let you,” Michael grins, pulling his own shirt over his head, leaning back in to bite and nip at Gavin’s neck.

The rest is a mess of limbs and hot, heavy, _filthy_ kisses that– oh god Michael’s really good with his tongue and– _fuck_ there’s going to be a bruise there tomorrow. When Michael lowers himself down on Gavin, he thrusts up involuntarily, mindless of the pained hiss Michael lets out from between his teeth. His fingers are scrabbling for purchase on the concrete floor, and _really_ there are better ways they could be doing this, but right now they both need it so–

“Move goddammit,” Michael growls, rolling his hips forward and _oh_. Michael’s just _so fucking tight_ around Gavin, and when Gavin lets out a whine, hips stuttering from the feeling of Michael fully seated on him, he clenches down hotly, the movement making him see stars. “Just fucking–” He doesn’t wait to hear the rest, rolls his hips, smirking when Michael pants out and moans a little. Michael must see the self-satisfied expression on Gavin’s face when he moves again, because he lets out a growl as he leans down and catches Gavin’s bottom lip between his teeth.

It doesn’t take long for Gavin, teetering on the edge for a long time now, to roll his hips once, twice, and then there’re stars in his vision as his arches off the ground, Michael’s hands pressing bruises into his arms, knees still braced on either side of his hips.

“Fuck,” Michael groans, taking his own erection in hand, but Gavin reaches up and bats his fingers away, curling his own fingers into a fist and holding him tight.

Michael’s eyes are wide and dark, and Gavin can’t help but remember what he’d thought the first time he’d seen Michael. _Beautiful_.

He thumbs the head carefully, watching Michael writhe above him, and Gavin is suddenly aware that Michael hasn’t pulled off of him yet. He strokes a little harder, a little fast, watches Michael’s expressions as he thrusts up into the tight heat of Gavin’s hands and–

He’s coming, white strips painting Gavin’s chest as Michael rides out the waves of his orgasm, head thrown back and fingers digging into Gavin’s arms. There’s going to be marks there tomorrow, and _why is he okay with that?_

They’re sitting next to each other awhile later, a mess but too tired to move. The familiar tendrils of guilt are starting to claw at his insides, and he starts to push himself up to get cleaned so that he won’t have to deal with it just yet. “You feel it too huh.”

That freezes Gavin, and he looks over to Michael, who is leaning again the wall, eyes closed, something thumps painfully in his chest.

“That guilt?” Michael continues, finally cracking open an eye and looking at him through a sideway glance. “You feel it too don’t you?”

Gavin lets himself sit, pulls his knees up to his chest and stares at the floor. “I miss her so goddamned much.”

“Welcome to the club,” Michael sighs, propping himself up properly and leaning carefully into Gavin’s side.

“They keep asking me to talk about it–”

“–but you don’t want to.” And maybe it’s a little infuriating, that Michael interrupts him, _knows_ what he wants to say before he can even say it. But it’s nice knowing he’s not alone in this. That someone’s lost just as much as he has.

“You don’t think–” and Gavin cuts himself off. Maybe he’s making assumptions, maybe it’s just a _thing_ , a _release_ , nothing serious enough for Gavin to actually be worried about.

“It’s too much?” Michael finishes anyway, pressing a little into Gavin’s side. “I don’t–” he shakes his head as though to clear his thoughts. Gavin watches him carefully. “I will _never_ be able to love anyone the way I loved Lindsay. If that’s what you’re looking for–”

“No,” Gavin rushes to say. “It’s just– I don’t think I could ever love anyone the way I loved Meg either. Even if ours wasn’t a love by choice.”

“Love by circumstance, love by choice, they all end up being the same thing anyway don’t they?” Michael says with a shrug. “We don’t _choose_ who we fall in love with. We just do.”

“Wise words,” he jokes and bumps Michael’s shoulder lightly, laughing at his scowl.

“Shut the fuck up boy on fire,” Michael retorts, but without any real heat, pressing comfortably against him again.

“Why me though?” Gavin finally asks after another minute of loaded silence. “Why not– _Barbara_ or just someone else?”

Michael is silent, and Gavin is ready to pretend he never asked when the feels a quiet shrugging of shoulders against him. “I don’t know Gavin,” and the way his name rolls off Michael’s tongue feels, _okay_ , doesn’t make him cringe or feel like shutting his eyes against. “I have no idea.”

It’s funny that of all the things Michael’s said, this is the one he believes the most, so he shuts his eyes and lets his head thump against the wall behind him, focusing solely on the warmth from his side coming from Michael and letting his mind wander.

 

 

The war itself isn’t much of a war.

The Peacekeepers had sorely underestimated their numbers, and they come storming the Capitol like they own the place, taking out any resistance easily. There are casualties on both sides, but not many, and soon, in the face of their overwhelming numbers, the Peacekeepers and Capitol troops surrender and the Rebel forces take control of the Capitol.

Barbara’s team infiltrates the Presidential Residence easily enough, although there are more guards than expected. There is a moment when Gavin thinks he’s going to lose Michael too, feels horror eating his insides when a stray guard gets too close, pointing his gun at Michael’s temple and unlocking the safety.

Caiti takes him out, swings around sharply and plants her broadsword through his chest before pulling it out and stabbing it through another nearby guard. He doesn’t even realise he’d been holding his breath until Joel is by his side, gripping his shoulder and asking if he’s alright.

“Yeah,” and his breath leaves him in a rush. “Yeah I’m– I’m good.”

Gavin feels like he should feel some kind of poetic justice when the President is forced on his knees in front of the entire nation, all the cameras in the Capitol trained on him. Barbara is at the head, Michael and him flanking her sides as she gives a rousing speech about how the country finally belongs to the people again. There are cheers all around, from the rebels, from some of the Capitol citizens, and when she gestures to him to take the stage, his mind suddenly blanks out. He had a speech prepared, but standing in front of the masses, the _millions_ , he isn’t so sure what to say anymore.

“Hey,” he starts, and in typical, clichéd fashion, the microphone squeals with feedback. “I– uh–” and he looks around, to the hopeful faces, the happy faces, the exhausted faces. People have been fighting all their _lives_ for something like this, and here they are, at the dawn of a new era, and they want _him_ to say something?

Dan is at his side, pressing a comforting hand against his wrist. He breathes through the panic, shoots a brief smile at Dan and grips the podium.

“These are the very same steps I’ve stood on, with someone very important to me.” He’s aware of the way his voice cracks when he says that, but ignores it and keeps going. “Her name is– was, Meg. She was amazing, beautiful, and dreamed of a free country, where we wouldn’t have to live in fear of stepping out of line, where we, our families, everyone in the outermost districts, wouldn’t have to live wondering when our next meal is. She wanted a better future, she wanted so many things, and when we became the first pair to come out of the Games alive, she saw a way to make it happen. I owe so, so much to her. She was brave where I couldn’t be, she was strong where I was weak, and most importantly, she never stopped believing in that future even when all of us thought that all hope was lost. She gave her life for this country, for this future to be achieved. And she gave us something to fight for even when she was facing imminent death.”

He breaks off to see Meg’s mum and sister watching him with tearful eyes, but there’s gratitude in their expressions.

“But it’s not just her that’s died for this future. Many people have died to see that we are where we are today. District 13 was all but destroyed, and so was District 12. Many have died for the same cause. And I’m thankful to say that their deaths haven’t been in vain. What we can do now is to make sure that we honour their sacrifice and maintain what so many have lost in order to achieve. We keep fighting for what’s right, we don’t let injustice go unpunished.”

He’s shaking now, but Michael’s on his other side, a small, determined smile on his face, and Gavin thinks _yeah, we’re going to be alright_.

Barbara kills the President, a single shot to the head, which is a lot kinder than what Gavin had in mind. She and Burnie take over the running of the country, smoothing out the kinks in the system they had in mind. Burnie doesn’t apologise for not saving Meg, but he knows he’s sorry, sees it in the way he offers Gavin a position on the new board of governors that he politely turns down. (“You don’t want me running a country,” Gavin says, and shrugs when Burnie tries to protest. “I don’t want to run it, I don’t want a part of it, really. Just– do right by the people. Do right by Ashley.” And he glances over at where she’s sitting nervously at the edge of the stage, watching them carefully. Burnie nods, and Gavin knows, that’s as close as they’d both come to to making their peace with each other. It’s as close to forgiveness as Gavin can manage to give Burnie too.) Dan takes over the running of the military and moves into the Capitol despite Gavin’s protests.

“You could come visit me whenever,” he reminds Gavin for the hundredth time, and he really wishes he wasn’t so _needy_ , so he settles for a grimace and a nod of his head. That doesn’t mean that he can’t spend one last afternoon with Dan out in the forests, hunting animals for the fun of it, starting a fire back in the District and cooking enough to feed a small army. They give out food to the workers lining the streets, offering warm stew to the countless children huddled together for warmth, and it’s different but it’s a good different, it gives Gavin purpose and that’s all that really matters.

Gavin moves back into District 12 and helps with rebuilding efforts, relocating families and tending to the sick and wounded. Winter will be coming soon, and they try to have as many homes fully refurbished before the cold hits. (He built a small memorial to Meg in the woods, had her mum and sister come by one afternoon as he placed flowers at the foot of the wood carving he’d done of her likeness. “Thank you,” Meg’s sister says, pressing herself against him and holding him tight. “Thank you.” He still feels he doesn’t deserve it, doesn’t deserve their forgiveness and their love, but he’s working through the guilt, learning how to take things one step at a time and learning how to let go. This is the first step, right here, and he visits the memorabilia every evening and spends time talking to her until the sky darkens and he has to leave lest he gets lost out here.

“I still see you in my dreams, sometimes. So real and just _there_ beneath my palm. But when I wake up and your gone I always panic first, and then I remember– you wouldn’t have wanted me to hold on and never let go would you? Constantly waiting on a girl who is never going to grow old with me. I’ve had you, and for that I’m thankful. Geoff and Griffon said I should be thankful for what I’ve had the chance to experience. You were _brilliant_ , you gave me so many things I never even got the chance to thank you for. I guess– you’re doing okay aren’t you? I miss you still. Every single damn day. But I’m learning to move on now you know? I won’t forget you, I never will. But I need to move on because I don’t think I can keep living if I hold on to you forever. You understand, don’t you?”

And he’s sure she does, even though the skies remain silent as it slowly darkens into oblivion.)

 

 

He’s wandering down old alleyways one evening after his session with Meg, cuffing his shoes against sidewalks when he spots a familiar figure in the distance, lounging against one of the blackened walls, looking _for all the world_ like he belongs there.

“Michael,” Gavin says by way of greeting, and can’t help the laugh that escapes his mouth when Michael starts at his name and almost falls off the wall.

“Gavin,” Michael grumbles, but if Gavin’s really listening (he really is) he would notice the fond tone with which Michael says it.

It hasn’t been any easier, life after the war, life without Meg, but it’s something and he’s getting somewhere, so he doesn’t find it too hard to lean next to Michael as they wait for the sun to set.

“It’s been awhile,” Michael starts again, and Gavin nods in agreement, not sure where he’s going with this line of conversation. “I’ve been wondering, uh.”

When Gavin looks at Michael, he’s frowning at the sky, at a loss for words. It makes Gavin laugh, he isn’t sure why, but he’s doubled over in laughter and he can feel the resentment rolling off of Michael in waves.

“Oh _now_ you’re laughing. At me. Ha ha. Very funny asshole.”

Gavin recovers quickly enough to catch the corners of Michael’s mouth turning up, and he grins at him, a little fragile at the edges but no less genuine. “My place is a couple of blocks away. Wanna head over for coffee?”

Michael shrugs, tries to appear nonchalant, but lets out an indignant squawk when Gavin grabs his wrist and pulls him along.

And it shouldn’t work, they are two men that have lost too much in too little time, who have demons haunting them and ghosts that won’t let them sleep at night. They don’t fall in love, but they damn well get close enough that no one can really tell the difference, and as Michael sits and glares at Gavin’s mug like it’s personally offended him, Gavin can’t help but quip in that “Meg never liked you you know.”

Michael scoffs at that, rolling his eyes.

“It’s fine. I never liked her either.”

And Gavin finds himself laughing at that, he doesn’t know why, but somehow, with Michael around, it’s easier to breathe.


End file.
